


Vilified, Crucified, in the Human Frame

by Winterotter



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Adult Content, Booker & Quynh Brotp, Booker | Sebastien le Livre Needs Therapy, Canon-Typical Behavior, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Immortal Husbands back-story, Immortal Wives Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Immortals, M/M, Reunions, Spoilers, Team as Family, and get Booker a puppy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25657132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterotter/pseuds/Winterotter
Summary: Rarely, the person killing you over and over becomes your closest friend, and for them (immortals who can't die) it's not as impossible as it sounds.A look at how the team reunites after the first movie. Because 100 years is entirely too long.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache & Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Nile Freeman, Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Quynh | Noriko, Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 93
Kudos: 542





	1. Booker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read any of my other fics, you know angst always sneaks in. So it's no surprise that Booker's perspective was the easiest to slip into for me, angsty boy that he is.
> 
> But, don't worry, they're all going to have plenty to do and focus in this!
> 
> The title is a lyric from the song, You Want it Darker, by Leonard Cohen. 10/10 would recommend.

* * *

“Hey,” Booker said as Nicky sat down next to him. He’d arrived at the safe house early because he needed the time to shake off his nerves. Time to talk himself into what he was about to do. Nicky hummed, probably expressing his general discontent with this clandestine meeting. His hood was up, shadowing his eyes and any emotion Booker might have read there.

Which, all things considered, was fair.

“I brought your favorite,” Booker said casually, handing him the venti full of sugar and caramel. Nicky hummed again, accepting the coffee and pushing back his hood. Still, he kept his gaze forward.

Booker sighed. The safe house was quiet, it was so far out in the middle of nowhere Italy that the only sounds were nature. He watched a pair of birds flit through the beams, the sunlight catching on their feathers.

“Thank you for coming,” Booker said.

“We were nearby,” Nicky said, his voice quieter than normal.

“You came alone?”

“As agreed. This better be important, Booker. It hasn’t even been a year.”

Booker clenched his jaw, grit his teeth. This was harder than he’d expected. He’d thought through every step of this plan, except for what to say once he got here. Weeks spent deciding which of them to contact, days of unanswered calls and voicemails before Nicky had returned his call, minutes to convince him to meet him. One night to tip him over into scheduling the meeting. And now, after all that, he didn’t know how to say it. Story of his life. All his plans fell apart, crashed, and burned.

Still. He’d gotten this far, and fuck it, this _was_ important.

“It’s life-changing. Life-ending,” Booker said.

“It better be. Now, will you please explain what that means? Oh, and tell me why I couldn’t bring Joe.”

“Quynh’s free,” Booker said, and then sighed. Because, of course, that was the best he could come up with. “She’s out of that coffin, and Nicky, she’s more than a little insane.”

Nicky was silent, his face unreadable. Booker clasped his hands to hide their shaking and watched the birds soar and spiral.

“How insane,” Nicky said, and Booker sagged in relief. There was no disbelief in his voice, none of the doubt and mistrust he’d feared hearing.

“Well, she's spent the last month alternating between killing me in increasingly awful ways and trying to be my therapist. I. . . I’m sober for the first time in a century. So something she’s doing is working. She’s not getting any better though, and I don’t know how to help her. She doesn’t want to see Andy, she knows she’s mortal, and she’s scared of killing her. Permanently. I. . . Nicky, she needs us, but I think she’s right about not being ready to see Andy. There’s too much trauma between them.”

“Sebastien,” Nicky said, and Booker fell silent, because no one had called him by that name in far too long. He’d been babbling he realized, and probably talking too fast. He stared at his hands.

“This is why you reached out to me,” Nicky said. Because of course, he’d read between the lines already. He may let Joe do most of the talking, but he’d always been the more perceptive one of the pair. Joe never would have come to meet him or answered any attempt at contact. Andy wouldn’t listen about giving Quynh time. And Nile was the most dangerous option since she still dreamed of Quynh and vice versa.

“Yeah,” Booker said, “I contacted you because I knew you’d hear me out, but I'm here for more than you. I want—no, she needs both you and Joe. She hasn’t asked, because she knows my punishment and I think she’s decided to wait it out with me. But that’ll mean never mending things with Andy and I know she’ll eventually regret that. You two can help her heal, I know you can. I‘ll. . . I’ll take you to her, talk her into staying with you, and then I’ll leave, okay? Add another year to my sentence, add ten, I don’t care, but please—help her. . . please, please come back with me.”

“You’re so sure we can heal her,” Nicky said quietly.

“Yes.”

Nicky was nodding. He was probably already thinking about how to tell Joe, how to convince him to trust Booker enough to go to Quynh. He would also be planning how to disappear without throwing up a flag that would have Andy and Nile looking for them. “I know you’re still mad at me,” Booker said, “And I’m not trying to change that. You don’t have to forgive me, I don’t deserve that. I know Joe won’t want to come, but please, don’t let me stand in the way of helping her.”

He was self-aware enough to know he was begging now, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care. He had no pride left.

“Believe me or not, but,” Nicky said, idly passing his coffee from one hand to another, the condensation dripping over his knuckles, “Joe isn’t mad at you, he never really was.”

The birds had landed on the ground now, drinking from the pool of gathered rainwater. It was nice, Booker thought. To see proof that even centuries after being built, life could still thrive in ruins.

“I see you do not believe me. No matter. You’ll discover it for yourself.”

Booker swallowed, his throat dry. He didn't dare believe Nicky, was the truth. If he let himself hope. . . he didn’t think he’d survive the inevitable disappointment.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” Booker said with a shrug.

“How are you?”

It took him aback. That question wasn't one he was prepared for, it hadn’t even been on the list of possible questions he’d considered. He didn’t know what to say, what answer Nicky was looking for. “Uh. . . Well, there are good and bad days,” he managed. “I still want to die, for good, and its a struggle not to drink myself to death, but. . . I’m better than I was.”

“What day is today?”

Booker sagged back into the bench, tilting his head up to stare at the ceiling. “Well, I haven’t died gruesomely today,” he said lightly, “did you know I’d never been beheaded before? Yeah, that was a pretty bad day. In comparison today’s good, great even. . . Listen, there’s something else I need to say. And if you could tell Joe for me too, I‘d appreciate it. I know that I. . . haven’t been easy to work with over the years. I know that I’ve hurt you both. . . even without considering my betrayal. And, that’s all on me. I couldn’t see past my grief and my loneliness to appreciate what was right in front of me. The family beside me. But no matter what, I want you to know that I never meant for you or Joe to be hurt. . . the way you were. Things spiraled out of my control — but that’s no excuse. And if after everything you guys don’t want anything to do with me, I’ll understand. It was. . . an honor to fight at your side as brothers.”

When he dared to look over, Nicky’s impassive face told him nothing, no sign of pity or sympathy or anger. Some part of him was grateful for it—any emotion might be enough to have him falling apart. A larger part of him despaired at how much of a stranger it made him. It was the death knell on their friendship, he knew, never before had Nicky so clearly had his walls up to him. With mortals yes, but never with Booker or Joe or Andy or Nile.

“Why do you think we can help?” Nicky said.

“Ah, well, because you helped me. I know, it may not seem that way. I know what I said about you not understanding. But the truth is, if it weren’t for you two I’d have fucked up a lot sooner. You guys gave me hope and for a long time—that was enough. So, I think that’s what Qunyh needs. A little hope, a little reminder of what she had with Andy, of what she could have again.”

“When,” Nicky said, and for the first time, Booker heard an emotion in his tone—a shake, like something Booker had said had caught him off guard

“What?”

“When. When did we stop being enough? Why didn’t you say something?”

“I guess it was that last year apart. Andy wanted a break, and you guys went wherever you go—and . . . I don’t know. I was alone, I was drowning and I couldn’t break the surface. I didn’t know how to tell any of you.”

“Mm,” Nicky said, whatever the hell that meant. “Does she know you’re here?”

“No, I snuck away. Left a note.”

Nicky turned to face him for the first time. “And you trust she’ll stay where you left her?”

“Well, yeah. She has nowhere else to go, and she doesn't dream of me anymore. She’ll wait.”

“Congratulations, Booker, your plan is shit. And you’ve managed to drag me into the middle of it. Again. Just like Cuba in '64.”

Booker let his head fall back again and he laughed so loud the birds startled away. “Fuck’s sake, Nicolo, don’t try to make me feel better.”

Nicky’s mouth twitched and he nudged Booker with his elbow. “What is the saying,” he said. “Oh yes, misery shared is misery halved.”

There was no response to that, it struck too close to home. Booker shut his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. His hand twitched towards the flask that wasn’t in his jacket.

“We’ll come, stop torturing yourself,” Nicky said after a long moment.

He let his head loll sideways, opening his eyes to stare at Nicky. “Thank you. Really, Nicky, I owe you one. More than one. I’ll clear out, pick up some food or something, and meet you guys back here whenever you’re ready to go.”

Nicky popped the lid off his drink, chugging the last of the sugary abomination he was so fond of. “No, no you will not be doing that,” he said.

“Excuse me, last I checked I wasn’t part of your team anymore or obliged to follow your orders.”

“You’ve still got a backbone, good, you’ll need it,” Nicky said. “You’re coming back with me, is what I meant. We’ll talk about whose orders you take later. For now, come back with me, where you can get some rest without worrying about Quynh for a bit. I’ll cook dinner and Joe will grumble, it’ll be just like old times.”

“That—that’s very optimistic, but I don’t think—“

“It wasn’t a request. It’s what’s going to happen if you want our help. Come on, my car is outside.” He stood, and turned to offer his hand. The hand startled Booker as much as his words had. As a general rule, the others didn’t initiate contact with him. Booker had been near-feral when they first found him, flinching from any contact. Only Andy had forced her way in, had acclimatized him to her touch by sheer force of will. Joe and Nicky had always let him be the one to reach out first—something he’d rarely dared to do. Nicky had initiated contact earlier too, he realized, he’d just been too distracted to notice.

 _We need to talk about why you isolate yourself_ , Quynh had said last time they’d talked.

 _I don’t, I’m just alone_ , he’d said.

 _You are alone_ , she had said, and he had flinched away from her knowing gaze. _Because you have made yourself be so_.

He’d had no rejoinder for that one. Because it was true, he’d held himself apart, had only dared to open up to the one who grieved as much as he did and Andy had been right. That day in Merrick’s lab, she’d been right. Neither of them had been living. They’d been dying, always dying, with nothing else in between.

And now there was Nicky’s hand. He was still standing there, hand extended, waiting. A kindness he would have denied himself a month ago, one he wouldn’t have believed seven months ago. He was trying to be better, though. So, now, he took the hand and allowed Nicky to tug him to his feet.

He didn't try to speak, for fear of his voice failing him.

“Let’s go home,” Nicky said, letting go of his hand to sling his arm around his shoulders instead, so Booker had no choice but to walk with him when he moved.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Booker said, “surprising Joe with me?”

“It won’t be a surprise,” Nicky said easily. “I agreed to come alone, not in secret.”

“What, that was _implied_ when I asked. Nicky. Jesus Christ, he’s going to kill me. In fact, I‘m shocked he didn't follow you here and kill me already.”

“I am old, implications mean nothing to me. You know this. We’ve been over this. Besides, I already told you, he’s not angry.”

Booker groaned.

They _had_ been over this, it was an old argument, and Booker _should_ have known better. Nicky would never break his word, but he was a master at finding loopholes that suited him.

“Well, that’s fair, I guess. I should have guessed you’d tell him no matter what I asked.”

“I wouldn’t have told him, if you’d remembered to tell me that specifically. But Booker, be glad you didn’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because putting me in a position where I felt I had to lie to him? That is what would make Joe angry.”

“Ah, good point.”

They exited the ruins and Booker stumbled to a stop.

“That’s not a car,” he said, eyeing the motorcycle.

Nicky laughed. “English is not my first language. Or my second, or my third. Words can be so tricky.”

“Does Nile buy your bullshit? You’ve been fluent as long as I’ve known you.”

“Sometimes,” Nicky said, his voice warm with fondness, “but she’s learning quickly.”

“Why didn’t you bring a car?”

“We only have the one,” Nicky said, tugging him forward. “Joe’s on a supply run so he needed it. Where’s yours?”

Booker sighed. They’d reached the bike and Nicky let go of him to swing onto it, starting the engine.

“I hitch-hiked into town and walked from there.” A decision which, in hindsight, lacked foresight on his part. Shit plan, indeed.

“Alright, climb on,” Nicky said, and revved the engine. “I won’t bite.”

“More like, you only bite Joe,” Booker said. He sighed as he situated himself behind Nicky, easing his arms around him, tension leaving him only when a hand found his and squeezed gently. He sighed. “Try not to crash, please. I’m enjoying my day of not dying.”

“I don’t crash,” he said, as he let off the throttle and the bike shot forward and out into the road. Booker let himself sink forward into Nicky, his eyes shutting against the wind.

“Then what do you call Cairo, 1865,” he shouted to be heard, “or New York 1953?”

“We were being shot at both times, those don’t count,” Nicky yelled back. Booker had more examples, but he didn’t speak them. Their banter was familiar, too easy to slip back into. He couldn’t allow himself to get used to it.

It would only make the next hundred years harder.

Booker drifted a bit, his mind going quiet as he counted his breaths and tried not to think about the confrontation he was hurtling towards.

He was going to have to talk to Joe, he’d been hoping to put that off a little longer. Had hoped to have a bit more time, had counted on Nicky softening him up first. There was a possibility Joe might kill him, or refuse to speak to him. Probably the second one, because he’d know that’s what would hurt the most. That was the reason he’d started with Nicky— no chance of him being cruel, there wasn’t a cruel bone in his body.

Maybe he’d also chosen Nicky because he’d needed some calm. His last month with Quynh had been filled with such highs and lows as she oscillated between rage and lucidity. Nicky was steady. In his demeanor, in his faith, in every way Booker needed right now. There had been moments, when Quynh was pouring his liquor down the drain, where he could see why Andy had missed her so much. Moments too, when she was killing him with a kind of mad insanity, where he could see her desperation for someone to go through what she had. For him to have an inkling of understanding.

But she wasn’t cruel either, not truly. It was why she couldn’t hold herself to it, why she’d never done anything permanent, or locked him up the way she had been.

He’d stay if she needed to keep killing someone, and Nicky and Joe would be there to talk her through until he came back. He suspected that wouldn’t be necessary though. She wouldn’t be able to bring herself to hurt them, and even if she tried, Nicky and Joe wouldn’t let her.

 _Why do you think we can help,_ Nicky had asked, and Booker’s answer had been honest but incomplete.

Truth was, he’d just had a feeling. He knew somehow, that going to get them was the answer.

Quynh needed help he didn’t know how to give. She deserved better than him.

The bike slowed, gravel churning as they turned. He opened his eyes to see a small bungalow, half covered in vines and flowers ahead. He hadn’t been here before, it must be one of the spots Nicky and Joe kept for themselves. Another thing he’d taken from them.

He got off slowly once the bike was parked, Nicky bounding ahead of him to throw open the door.

A puppy about knee height bounded out, beelining for Booker.

“I knew it,” Nicky grumbled, “Joe was supposed to take the dog with him.” Booker laughed, crouching down to pet the puppy. It looked like a beagle mix of some kind, a couple of months old at most. The puppy scrambled into his arms, jumping up to lick Booker’s neck, chin, his face. Any bit of skin the dog could reach.

“Well,” Nicky said, and Booker heard the gravel crunch as he walked over. “I’d be jealous but this is kind of fitting.”

That got Booker to look up, “how so?”

Nicky grinned. “Booker, meet Bailey. Joe wanted to name her Booker, you know. I talked him out of it, a lady such as this deserves her own name.”

He stumbled to his feet and cradled Bailey to his chest. “Joe. . . Joe wanted to name her after me.”

“Yes,” Nicky said, reaching over to stroke Bailey’s head and tug her ears softly. “Do you believe me now?”

“I'm starting too,” he said, and let Nicky usher him up the path and through the doorway.

“Joe won’t be back for a couple of hours. You look like you haven’t slept in a week, there’s a guest room down this way,” Nicky led him down the hall on the left and into a bedroom. He gestured at the second door across the room, “bathroom’s through there. It’s stocked with anything you might need. You probably want to sleep, so these close.”

Nicky was standing in front of the window, getting ready to draw the curtains.

“Wait,” Booker said, “leave them. I like the view.” The windows looked out on a small courtyard, an old-fashioned stone well in the center, and a wild garden around it.

“Alright. Now, you should take a nap. I’ll wake you when food’s ready.”

Nicky didn’t move to leave though, standing there looking back at him. . . like he was worried about him. Had he been quiet too long? “Thank you,” he said, for lack of anything better. “Sleep sounds great.”

“Alright, I guess I’ll go see what we’ve got in the kitchen.”

Despite his words, Nicky still hadn’t moved towards the door.

Booker blinked at him. “Oh, Bailey. Here, take her.”

Nicky moved then, crossing the room in two strides. He reached out but instead of taking her, he pushed Bailey back into Booker's arms. “Keep her, Bailey's still young enough that she naps a decent amount of the day. If you’re lucky she’ll lay down with you.”

“I. . .thank you,” Booker said.

He nodded, leaning down to kiss Bailey’s head. He caught Booker’s eye, squeezed his shoulder, and then slid past him.

By the time Booker turned around Nicky was gone, the door not fully closed. A gap just big enough for Bailey to nose it open if she wasn’t content to stay, probably.

He sank gratefully onto the bed, the mattress soft and welcoming. He kicked off his shoes, and fell back, not bothering with the blankets. Bailey wiggled until she was sprawled lengthwise down his chest, her wet nose pressing the crook of his neck. She sighed and went still, her fur tickled him but he was loathe to disturb her. The room was quiet except for the soft sound of her breathing and the distant sound of Nicky rummaging through the kitchen.

It was a familiar sound, one he’d fallen asleep to thousands of times over his 200 years of not dying.

Bailey shuffled closer, her front paws landing on his collarbone and neck, her face pressing into his cheek. He sighed and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

He woke slowly, quietly, like floating up from the depths of a pool. It was the exact opposite of what it felt like when he came back to life—that was always sudden, as violent as the death preceding it. He took a moment to blink awake, and another moment to register the voices that had woken him.

"I should wake him," Nicky was saying, his voice pitched low.

"No, no I'll get him," Joe said.

Booker scrambled to sit up—he knew he hadn't bothered with the blankets, yet somehow, there was one weighing him down. The puppy was gone, his door fully open in her wake. He glanced at the window—the sun was beginning to set, the courtyard lit with lights strung between the trees. "Damn," he muttered.

It had been the middle of the day when he'd gotten here. He hadn't meant to sleep this long.

"Already awake, I see. That's good. Nicky is finishing up your omelet now. He had to wait for me to get back with groceries, so he let you sleep."

"Okay, great. Omelets sound great."

"Come on, you can get up. I won't bite."

Booker laughed and slid off the bed. "Nicky said the same thing to me earlier today. You two need to get out more, get some fresh material. You—"

He couldn't say anything more, because Joe was at his side. One moment he was leaning in the doorway, and the next moment he was right next to Booker. It was unexpected, and he couldn't help but tense. There was a moment when he feared Joe was going to hit him, but instead, hands were on his shoulders, cupping his jaw, tilting his face one way and then the other.

"You have not been taking care of yourself."

"Did you expect I would," he gritted out. That was the moment he felt fully awake, felt the first stirrings of frustration. "Because I usually do well with isolation."

Booker knew he was shaking, and he couldn't control it. Joe's hands had not moved from his jaw. He bowed his head to rest their foreheads together, and it did nothing to stop the shaking. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I'll never be able to apologize enough, I'm so fucking sorry."

"Hush," Joe said. "It's alright."

He shut his eyes. He couldn't meet Joe's gaze. "I never meant—I just wanted—"

"Book. Leave it for later."

Always later. It was always being left for later. He was so exhausted of putting it off. He wasn't built for waiting, for anticipating pain. He'd much rather get it over with, have it out, no matter how excruciating that might be. A wound that hadn't been dealt, could not be soothed. He couldn't open his eyes, because then Joe would see how this was affecting him. He would take one look at Booker and know. Joe said nothing further. He didn't move away either.

He couldn't say how long they stood there. Thirty seconds, one minute, or ten, he didn't know. It felt like half a year, it felt as long as the time he'd spent away.

He was raw with pain, with grief, with guilt. None of those words truly encompassed what he felt—there was no word for his level of shame and regret. Christ Almighty, he was amazed they hadn't thrown him in a steel coffin and stuck him at the bottom of the ocean for his 100-year punishment. It would be deserved, he'd brought all their worst nightmares to life, had delivered them to someone who wanted to lock them away and torture and experiment on them.

After another long moment, he managed to wrest back his control. He shifted, leant back.

"Sorry," he said.

"It's alright," Joe said again, as if Booker hadn't betrayed him and then showed up before his sentence was over and brought trouble to his door. Or, more accurately, showed up to ask them to come back to Booker's door and help with the trouble that was behind it.

Booker gave a weak smile, and Joe grinned back. "Come on," he said, hands falling to squeeze his shoulders and then withdraw. "Nicky will be wondering what's taking so long."

He glanced back at the room. It was a guest room on the surface, but when he looked closer he noticed gold hoop earrings on the dresser, an empty rack for Andy's axe above the bookshelf. And the bookshelf, it was filled with books he recognized.

It was his collection of books from the Charlie safe house that had been burned by Copley. And him. This wasn't a guest room, or at least, it wasn't an impersonal room set up for appearances or unexpected visitors. It was for them. He swept the room one last time, and wondered. Had Andy and Nile already visited? The earrings pointed in that direction. Did Nicky and Joe set aside a room for them in all their homes?

Something warm settled in his stomach and he was aware that he was smiling, for no good reason.

"Booker?"

He turned to find Joe halfway down the hall, looking back at him with arched brows.

"Right behind you."

Dinner was strange, because everything in him and around him felt strange. It was like a light had been turned on inside him, something indefinable illuminated. He'd almost forgotten what emotions that weren't dripping with grief felt like. He was used to being consumed by one feeling, to drowning in it until he couldn't breathe around it anymore—not this mix of bitter and sweet. Somehow that light had been switched on, and he was feeling a range of emotions he didn't think he'd felt since his sons were still among the living.

It wasn't just his emotions either—the omelet he was eating tasted divine, as if he'd been starved and this was his first taste of food (he knew from experience what that tasted like, this was on that level). Everything he'd put in his mouth for so long had tasted of ash. His alcohol, Andy's baklava, water even, had been without taste for him.

He and Joe sat at the bar overlooking the kitchen and chatted as they ate their omelets. Joe was drinking coffee. "Seriously," Booker said, eyeing the steaming mug. "Coffee for dinner?"

"We don't have decaf," Joe dead-panned, and Nicky laughed from where he was standing at the stove.

"Not in this house," Nicky said. "If you want something without caffeine or alcohol we have milk, water, or I can make you chamomile tea."

“Without alcohol? For Booker?”

“Sober," Booker said, waving his fork at himself, "for a little over a month now."

"Seriously? What's that like?"

Booker chewed his bite of omelet contemplatively. "You know, it's not as bad as I thought it would be. I'm definitely going through cash slower."

"Yeah, okay," Joe said, "But. . . are you doing it for you? Or for Quynh?"

"Bit of both," Booker said, and shrugged. "Nicky filled you in already?"

"He gave me the broad strokes. Quynh's free and she's been spending her days either killing you or trying to fix you. Figures she's having better luck than we did."

Booker absorbed that for a minute. "Were. . . you ever _trying_ to fix me?"

He found that idea hard to believe. For the most part, Joe and Nicky had seemed content to let Andy look after him. There was a loud clang as Nicky moved the pan from a hot burner to a cool one. They'd helped him by example, that was true, but he'd never gotten the impression it was deliberate. 

"We did try," Joe said, "but we didn't. . . you were right. Before. We don't really know what it is to be alone and grieving, the way you and Andy have been. And now Nile's going through it."

"The worst part for me, aside from the obvious, was how quiet my life was after they were gone. I mean, I had three sons, you can imagine the noise and color they filled my life with. When they passed, all the color seeped out with them. . . It'll be different for Nile, siblings outlive each other all the time. Kids are supposed to outlive their parents. I hope it's easier for her."

"Booker," Nicky said.

"Yeah," he said. He studied the assortment of drawings pinned to the fridge. Most were landscapes, depicting cities and places lost to time. One or two were of Nicky, sketches of his face, of his hands. 

"You visit your descendants lately?" Nicky asked, brutal in his ability to strike right at the jugular. At the last thing you wanted him to see and bring attention to.

"From afar," Booker said.

"They're doing well?"

"The ones I can find, yeah. You know how it is after a few generations."

"We do," Nicky said, sliding the last omelet off the pan and onto a waiting plate. He was quiet as he came to stand on the other side of the bar from them. "Listen,” he said. “I think we should leave to join Quynh sooner than later. If. . . If I’d been alone as long as she has been, I don’t think I’d be able to wait long for the one person I’ve reached out to return. She chose you, Booker. We should get you back to her before she does something drastic. ”

Booker scoffed. “Chose me? I was just convenient. Of the two she’s sharing dreams with, I’m the one out in the cold and isolated.”

“I agree with Nicky,” Joe said. “Quynh could have gotten Nile alone if she wanted to. Or tracked us down, we still go to a lot of the same haunts. But she didn’t, she went to you, Booker. That means something.”

He swallowed, staring down at his hands. “Okay, okay. So we go tonight.”

“Good,” Joe said. “I’ll pack our things. Nicky, will you get Bailey ready?”

“Yes, I’ll bring the car around too. And Booker?”

He looked up, unable to resist the gentle coaxing in Nicky’s voice. He’d never met anyone who could resist him when Nicky was of the mind to charm someone. Which wasn’t often.

“Take a shower.”

“What?”

“You’ve got blood behind your right ear,” Nicky said, casual as can be. “Get cleaned up, we’ll take care of everything else. You’ll feel better afterward and the car ride will be more pleasant for us all.”

Booker was silent for a moment, staring at Nicky. Then, he threw his head back and laughed. “That your way of telling me I smell?”

“Yes,” Joe said, reaching over to shove him off his stool. “So shoo, go shower. Don’t forget to wash behind your ears, kid.”

He stumbled before regaining his balance, his mind going blank.

“Booker?”

“You. . . you haven’t called me that since the turn of the century.”

“Oh.”

He looked up to see them both watching him. Nicky was frozen, mid-chew, and Joe was studying him over the rim of his mug.

The stalemate held for a heartbeat before Nicky swallowed and said something in Italian too quiet for Booker to make heads or tails of.

Joe nodded, and another heartbeat passed before he spoke. “You’ll always be our kid brother, Book. That’s not up for negotiation.”

Booker couldn't think of anything to say to that. "I. . . uh, thanks. I'm just. . . going to go shower. Yeah."

They didn't say anything or bother to hide their amused smirks. Booker stumbled down the hall, his head reeling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	2. Quynh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter than the last, mainly because Quynh's perspective is harder to slip into (we saw so little of her). I haven't read the comics, so her characterization here is built entirely off the movie. 
> 
> Fair warning, this chapter depicts her (not healthy) mindset and some of her more. . .murderous actions (though not in too much detail, imo.)

* * *

Quynh sat out on the balcony, cradling a cup of tea. That was the word for it too, since her tea had long grown cold and she hadn’t sipped it in even longer. Being able to drink without choking was a novelty, one she persisted in, partly in spite of how it never failed to make her stomach twist into knots. The moon was full tonight, the streets below quiet. She set her cup down on the railing as she heard the door slide open and then shut behind her.

“Want company?” Booker said.

Quynh didn't say anything, instead gesturing to the empty chair next to her in an invitation. He made his way over, easing down onto the chair, his posture unguarded and open. The foolish boy, with no survival instinct left. Everything she’d glimpsed of him in her dreams had been correct.

It brought her no satisfaction.

“I know we’ve had this conversation,” Booker was saying. “But I think you should consider taking some of your own advice.”

Quynh tucked her feet up in the chair with her, folding her skirt over top to warm them.

“I don’t have a choice about being on my own, but you do.”

“Everyone has a choice,” Quynh said. She turned her attention back to the street below. So much had changed, she hardly recognized the world around her. Booker followed her gaze, hunching forward with his elbows propped on his knees. He probably wasn’t going to leave it there. “We need to talk about why you isolate yourself," she said.

Booker was quiet, and for a moment, she believed she’d derailed the conversation to the point of silence.

“I don’t, I’m just alone,” he said, and she hadn’t.

Quynh sighed. “You are alone,” she said, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw him flinch. “Because you have made yourself be so.”

She tipped her head back against the metal chair, closing her eyes to spare him his dignity. Something in her chest ached. “Quynh,” Booker said quietly. “Please, we can fix me later. I’ll do whatever fresh hellish therapy exercises you want. But, please, you need help too.”

Quynh rubbed at her eyes. The worst part, the absolute worst part, was she knew he had a point. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t tell that something in her, something unnameable, was broken. Changed. Furious and raging at everything around her.

“Look, Quynh,” he started, turning to slant eager eyes in her direction. “It’s not that I don’t. . . want you here. Because I do—you know, you know that. But I can’t help but think—“

“Please,” Quynh said quietly. “Let’s just savor the beautiful night. Please.”

Booker folded his hands together, his head bowed as if he was praying. He breathed out in a long gust. “It is nice out.”

“Yes. A bit too quiet for my taste. It reminds me of. . . Well. You know.”

She saw Booker steal a look at her. Still unwary of her, of the blades he must know she had hidden in her sleeves.

He was just. . . concerned.

“I do know,” he murmured.

They sat in silence for a moment. She leaned forward to rescue her tea, knocking it back. Quynh grimaced at the taste and Booker laughed.

“Well,” Booker said, standing slowly and stretching. “If you don’t want to talk, I guess I’ll head inside.” He moved towards the door and Quynh turned to watch him go.

“Wait,” she called after him.

“Yeah?”

“Say what you came out here to say.”

Booker stepped back towards her, “playing therapist still?”

Quynh stood, setting her cup down with enough force to crack the porcelain. She heard the sharp and quick sound of it break. It was a piece of Booker’s antique china, from his early years as an immortal. He wouldn’t say anything, but she knew he didn’t have another cup quite like this one. “I wouldn’t have to counsel you if you would go see someone professional,” she said. “If you would, then—“

“Then what? You wouldn’t have to look after me?”

Booker was vibrating now, one hand running through his hair, the other clenched into a fist. A fist he’d never raise against her, he’d never once fought back or defended himself against her. “We’re getting off track again,” Booker gritted out. “Look, I understand why you don’t want to see Andy. . . Hell, it’s the reason I told you she’s mortal. Your chosen form of catharsis would kill her. . . But Nicky and Joe are different. They could help and you know it.”

Quynh wished she hadn’t poured every drop of alcohol in his flat down the drain. A drink sounded divine. Several drinks, in fact. It took quite a bit to get them inebriated. She was beginning to have trouble following what Booker was saying. It happened every now and then. Language had changed as much as everything else. Moved on, evolved without her there to witness it. It hardly mattered, they’d had variations of this conversation before. She knew what he meant even if she didn’t comprehend all the words.

She leaned back against the railing and closed her eyes.

“Nile’s young but she’s got a good head on her shoulders,” Booker was saying, “and she hasn’t lived long enough to be as broken as the rest of us. Any of them could help you more than I can. Alright? You know what I did, you saw the state I was in when you found me. And it’s not like you’re any better, you can’t even shower without me holding your hand. We, we’re probably just making each other worse. I’ve been through this before, okay. With Andy. You. . . I’ve got enough issues without all of yours too.”

She left her eyes closed as she absorbed that. If only she could have one of her breaks with reality now. But she was fully, painfully, lucid, and she’d understood every word of what he’d just said. “Booker. If this is your way of telling me to leave, please just say that.” Her voice shook and it surprised her.

“No!” He said quickly, “no, I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have—that was over the line and untrue. Please, Quynh, I’m sorry.”

She listened to Booker shuffle closer, his movements loud and telegraphed. After a moment he stilled and she opened her eyes to find him standing just in front of her.

“Sit down Booker,” Quynh said, waving him into her abandoned chair. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

He dutifully sat, his hands braced on the arms of the chair. Deliberately non-threatening. 

“Going to use that knife?”

“Yes, probably,” she agreed.

Booker sat there in silence, not flinching away from the knife she held at his throat. His gaze open and trusting. Quynh would never forget his face for as long as she lived. The first face she’d seen after an eternity of drowning alone. The face that featured in every reprieve thereafter, for two hundred years. “It’s okay, Quynh,” Booker said, “it’s okay.”

He relaxed back into the chair, his eyes fluttering closed. Quynh didn’t move for a long moment, watching him rest there. Then, in the next moment, her hand had moved and his throat was slashed open. He jerked in the chair, a reflex that couldn’t be suppressed, and then went still.

Quynh wiped the blade clean on the hem of his shirt, pressed a kiss to his brow, and moved inside. She settled down in Booker’s bed, curling up under the blankets.

It wasn't long before she slipped into a dream where instead of her being drowned in that horrid coffin, it was Booker. And she was chained to a lone mast, forced to watch his coffin go overboard, she tried to get loose but the chains tightened instead of breaking. Somehow, her dream-self was convinced if she just pulled hard enough the chains would snap and she could dive into the water after him. But the chains didn’t break and the faceless figures around her slowly came into focus. She called out to Andromache, begged Yusuf and Nicolo, cried out for any one of them to save Booker. But they couldn’t hear her, they didn’t acknowledge her at all.

The water churned and grew dark as a storm gathered above. Lightning cracked, thunder rumbled and the sound Booker calling her name echoed in her ears. Then, finally, Andromache turned to face her.

“Save Booker? Quynh, you’re the one who put him there.”

She woke with a start, flailing and knocking over the glass of water on the bedside table. The flat was painted in the warm hues of the sunrise. She sat up slowly, panting, half expecting to feel chains restraining her. There wasn’t. Of course, there wasn’t. There was also no sign of Booker in the chair pulled next to the bed. Where he’d slept every night since she’d found him.

That jolted her from the bed and within minutes she had searched the small flat and found the note he left on the kitchen table.

_Gone to get help. I’ll be back soon, I swear._

_I’m sorry. Please trust me._

_Sebastien_

* * *

She didn’t go back to sleep after that, even though she was still tired. She was always tired. It was six in the morning, and going back to bed seemed pointless. She’d just end up lying there, staring at the ceiling and straining for the sound of Booker returning. Instead, she stumbled back to the bedroom, detoured into the bathroom, stopped and stared at the bathtub and shower, before remembering what a bad idea that was. In the end, she went back out on the balcony.

There, in the corner, was a bucket and a scrub brush. The smell of bleach lingered. Of course, Booker had cleaned up his own blood before leaving. _Leaving_ , her mind repeated, _leaving you behind._ _Were you expecting any different? He’s just like them._

“He’ll come back,” she whispered.

Logically, she knew he had no reason to. Even Booker must have a shred of self-preservation somewhere in him. Maybe last night had been the final straw, maybe he’d finally found the will to live and left. He had to know by now that she wasn’t right, that she may never be. _Just you and me_ , she had said and believed.

_Until the end_ , Andromache had sworn but not delivered on. And Booker had taken one look at her when she’d found him, and understood perfectly. _It’s a bitch isn’t_ , he’d said, _being without her._

Drunk out of his mind, and still, a kindred spirit. Andromache had failed them both, had left them both to drown alone in the waters of their despair. There had been nothing for Quynh to explain after that. It hadn’t been necessary. He gave her his bed without prompting, ordered from a different takeout place every day so she could try anything that caught her fancy, and he even helped her figure out the internet.

She suspected he regretted that last one, since it was there she’d read up on depression and PTSD. It was also where she’d found, and ignored, studies on codependency and Stockholm syndrome. Booker had done anything she’d asked and he’d let her kill him. Over and over without apology. If it were her, she wouldn’t be coming back.

Logically she knew that. But, not so logically, she knew he would be back. She trusted him.

_I’ve got enough issues without all of yours too._

Well, she’d been wrong before. There had been a time when she hadn’t been able to imagine a scenario where Andromache gave up on her. They’d had a good run, the two of them. It had been an exhilarating series of centuries spent fighting, and laughing, and loving. _Everything that lives, dies_. That applied to relationships too, she reasoned. First Andromache and now Booker. It always ended with her left behind and alone.

She collapsed into Booker’s chair, hugging her knees to her chest, and shivered.

Booker had sprawled in the other chair, her chair, just last night. Booker had closed his eyes, trusted her—his throat bared and vulnerable before her. And she’d slit it open.

“He’ll come back,” she said again and she shifted in the chair, forcing her hands to let go of her legs until her feet were back on the floor. Toes flexing against the rough concrete. She forced herself to relax and it was possible she dozed for a bit. Sometimes she could do that. Sometimes she could manage to sleep or to drift in a kind meditative state. Other times, she woke from a nightmare gasping for air.

Usually, Booker would be there when that happened, waiting for her to kill him or drag him to the balcony for a bracing cup of tea.

She tossed in the chair, hands clutching at the blanket warming her legs. The blanket was soft, and it didn’t feel familiar. It was something homemade, knitted together with careful hands.

There were no blankets like this in Booker’s flat and she hadn’t had a blanket when she fell asleep.

Her eyes snapped open and she twisted to the side, and there was Booker, sitting in the chair he’d died in. He was flipping through a book, his forehead wrinkled in a frown. He glanced over at her, returning her stare.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.”

Quynh frowned. “How long,” she rasped out. “How long were you gone?”

“Little over a day. Were you out here the entire time?”

Quynh swallowed, struggling to get her bearings. She didn’t answer.

“Never mind,” Booker said, closing the book and setting it aside. “So, I have a question for you.”

Quynh blinked at him. “Hypothetically,” he continued, “how would you react if I brought Nicky and Joe home with me? And a puppy.”

She frowned.

"Hypothetically they could be, as we speak, walking said puppy around the block. Let's say they were the help I went to go get. Is that something you could forgive?"

The road below them was loud with the sounds of a waking city. Cars driving by, the distant sound of people talking. If he'd been gone over a day, if this wasn't the morning she'd found the note, but the next day, she’d lost track of a considerable amount of time. That had happened before, but never for a stretch of time such as this. Booker was silent, sitting in his chair, just waiting.

His eyes never left her. "I'm sorry I left," Booker said. His voice was rough and tired. "If you don't forgive me, I'll understand. But Joe and Nicky are here to help you, and they can, I swear that they can."

She struggled to find something to say to that. To make Booker understand. Somehow, he thought he was the one who had to earn forgiveness. As if they weren't past that point. There was no world where he needed to earn that from her, there was a only a world where she should be asking for his. That world would be the just one. But she wasn't much concerned with justice anymore.

Would Booker ever cease trying to make the world just? She hoped not.

"There's nothing to forgive," Quynh said. "But, don't do that again."

Booker's was staring at his shoes now. "I—no, I won't," he said.

"You ever leave again, you tell me to my face."

He nodded. "Yes, anything," he murmured.

"Nicolo and Yusuf are nearby," Quynh said.

"Uh. . . yeah. They thought. . . I thought it would be better if I told you they were here. Instead of just showing up with them. Besides, the puppy needed to be walked after being cooped up—"

"Good," Quynh said. "And Nicolo, is he still good at cooking?"

Booker was staring at her, his brow furrowed. "I mean. . . yes?"

"Good," Quynh said again. "I was getting tired of takeout." She rose from her chair, and let her mouth twist into a smirk. A beat. She let the smirk soften into a smile, watching for the moment when Booker caught the difference, tracking his own answering smile, the way it lit up his eyes, and eased the tension from his shoulders.

"Well, I'm sure he'll be happy to make whatever you like," Booker murmured.

"Mm," Quynh said, "if I know him, he and Yusuf are already picking up ingredients."

"They probably are," Booker said.

He stood up, reaching over to tug the blanket more firmly around her, his hands lingering. He smoothed the creases, his hands finally settling on her shoulders. Then he shut his eyes, not flinching when she curled her hands around his wrists.

"Booker," Quynh said, tilting her head to force him to meet her gaze when his eyes opened.

"Yeah?"

"Stop apologizing. Now, do me a favor."

"Anything."

"I'm cold."

Booker laughed and closed the distance between them to fold her into his arms, drawing her close. Quynh didn't resist. She released his wrists to wrap her arms around his neck, and pulled the blanket around them both, because it was actually quite chilly on the balcony and she didn't want to be cold. Didn't want Booker to be cold.

They didn't do anything but stand there, their arms wrapped so tight that Quynh could feel the moment she began to shake against his solid form. "Hey," Booker whispered. His voice was soft and low, more a breath than words. "Quynh. You're trembling. Are you—"

"Yes,' Quynh managed. "Yes. I'm fine. Just, just don't let go yet."

Booker's arms tightened, and he began speaking in her ear. So softly, and in what she thought must be French. From what she could translate, he wasn't say anything meaningful, just nonsense words. The kind meant to comfort. They were whispers, the words unimportant beyond their intent. Moments like this were what she had held onto in her coffin, either in her memories or in her dreams of him.

Life was cruel, but life was also this. It was finding comfort in another's arms, it was the grace of a forgiveness you hadn't earned or been able to ask for, it was serving out a sentence with someone who understood.

The balcony was still too cold. They migrated into the flat, because she couldn't stop trembling and Booker couldn't abide that. They ended up on the couch, Quynh curled into his side and a second blanket across their laps. There was no further conversation. They were too tired to attempt any more talking, so they rested there, Booker's arm around her shoulders, her face pressed into his chest, and they breathed.

"I'll try," Quynh whispered finally, "I'll try to let them help."

"Thank you."

"But I have one condition."

Booker carded his fingers through her hair, the pads of his fingers massaging her scalp. "Anything you want," Booker said.

"Stay. Stay by my side."

"Quynh. . . I already broke my sentence once. They. . ."

"It'll be a condition they have to agree to, too then. Or they can leave," Quynh said. She leant back to look as his face. "I want you with me."

"I. . . okay. Yeah, yes, I'll stay," Booker said, tugging her until she relaxed against him again. "Of course, I will."

"Thank you," Quynh murmured, and let herself fall into him. Trusted him to hold her up.

For a moment they lapsed back into a peaceful silence. Quynh felt boneless and heavy at the same time, her mind as quiet as the flat around them.

"You know," Booker said, his words slow and contemplative. “You'll have to get used to calling them Joe and Nicky. 'Yusuf' and 'Nicolo' stick out too much."

"Hm. They went by Joseph and Nico for a time, as well. And yet, I have always called them by their first names. I am too old to change my ways now." The chest she was resting on shook in a soft laugh, and Booker's hand found her hair again.

"I have heard that excuse too many times." Quynh could feel herself drifting back to sleep, but managed to hum an acknowledgment. "Quynh, hey," Booker said.

"What?"

"Why don't you call me by my first name?"

"That's different."

Booker hummed, an echo of her. "How?"

Quynh shifted, tugging the blanket closer. "Their other names are assumed ones, meant to hide their identities, yes?"

"Yeah."

"Yours is not that. 'Booker' is an endearment, bestowed by those who love you. Different."

"I. . . see. Okay."

Quynh yawned, and did her best to smother it, but she suspected Booker noticed anyways. Her whole body felt heavy and flooded with warmth, content in a way she hadn't been in so long, and her mouth kept twitching back into that soft smile. There was no reason for it, nothing that had been broken was fixed, not yet.

Worse, there was every reason to believe that what was broken could not be repaired. That Yusuf and Nicolo would try and try to heal her, to patch up Booker, and fail at every obstacle. Some things could not be fixed, forgiven, or forgotten. There was reason to believe that was true of her, the odds were in favor of that.

But that didn't have to be true. Nothing was permanent, not them, not the coffin that had held her. Her best friend was here with her, her lover was impossibly mortal again, and the brothers who had guarded her back for hundreds of years were only a phone call and a short walk away.

Perhaps, there was just as much reason to believe they could find a way to move forward.

She burrowed closer to Booker, and let her eyes flutter close to the steady sound of his breathing.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?
> 
> Next chapter will focus on Joe. I'm about halfway done with it and hit a bit of a quandary. I'm considering including a flashback scene to the early days of him and Nicky. 
> 
> Is that something you would be interested in? Or would you prefer I stick to the present day?
> 
> I'd love to get some takes on this. :)


	3. Joe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a bit longer than the last, but it's also double the length, so hopefully, that makes up for the wait.

* * *

"Okay," Nicky said. "Okay. Maybe you should take Bailey for another walk."

Joe rolled his eyes and continued to stir the steaming broth. "That's not necessary. They're sleeping, Nicky."

"For now. But you heard what Booker said. Maybe it's in everyone's best interest if we keep the mortal creatures away from Quynh for now, alright? Just until we get a better read on the situation."

"Nicky. Nicolo, you're spiraling. Quynh's not going to hurt a puppy. Stop having an anxiety attack before you slice a finger off." And he punctuated his point by catching Nicky's elbow, just managing to prevent him from bringing the knife down on his fingers instead of the beef he was supposed to be cutting up. "Breathe, my love. Everything will be fine."

Nicky obeyed, and set the knife down. "Are the noodles ready?"

"Yeah, just waiting for you to add the beef. Here, taste this," Joe extended his ladle to Nicky, who carefully sipped at the broth there. "How's that?"

Nicky frowned thoughtfully. "Did you toast the anise and clove?"

"Of course. I haven't let it simmer in the broth long enough, though, huh. Damn."

"You're too impatient, it's fine. Give it a few more minutes and it'll be perfect. You're doing great, Joe. My favorite sous chef."

"Damn right, I am. Not that Booker will appreciate it, he has no palate for anything not doused in alcohol."

"See? And you scoff at my anxiety," Nicky said. "Then, you spout things like that. Say something like that over lunch and it's going to be a disaster."

"Nicolo. Light of my life. For the love of all that is holy, find your inner peace. You seem to have misplaced it. I was just joking, you know I adore Booker and his lack of taste. Everything's going to be—“

The couch creaked and Joe froze, his eyes locking with Nicky’s. A heartbeat passed, another, and he exhaled.

“Fine?” Nicky whispered, his voice managing to be both quiet and incredulous. They’d snuck into the flat about an hour ago, and found Booker and Quynh dozing on the couch. Quynh had opened her eyes, just long enough to recognize them and then settled back down.

Joe honestly hadn’t known what to make of that. And instead of mulling over it, he had set his mind to helping Nicky. Usually, Nicky went quiet when he was upset. He would go silent and lock down in a way that only Joe tended to notice. It was his only tell. He’d lost track of the number of times he’d fallen asleep waiting for Nicky to break his silence. It was even odds whether he’d be woken by it in the middle of the night or if Nicky’s silence would last into the next day.

So when he went the opposite way? It was for one of two reasons. One, he was upset over something trivial and Nicky was deliberately venting aloud so that Joe knew that too. Two, it was family. Nothing made Nicky panic like issues within their group.

Nicky reached over for the large bowl of waiting noodles and began adding the beef to it. “I think the broth is ready,” Joe murmured. “Once we add that, we’re done right?” He stirred the pot, and Nicky nodded and set the bowl down next to the stove.

Just as Joe was beginning to think they were going to finish cooking in silence, Nicky finally spoke. He was so startled he fumbled the pot, the boiling broth coming dangerously close to pouring onto the floor instead of into the bowl.

“I think we need a game plan,” Nicky said. “We can’t stumble through this blind.”

“Yeah, probably,” Joe sighed.

“You take Booker,” Nicky said, and that brought his head around. Nicky was just standing there, leaning back against the counter and staring straight ahead. “He needs you more,” Nicky said. “I’ll talk with Quynh. After we feed them.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Joe said.

“Why?”

“Back at the house. Booker all but flinched away from me.”

Nicky was frowning. “More reason for you you to take him, then. He needs to hear it from you, Joe.”

“Hear what?”

“I know why you’re not truly angry with him. You know why. He doesn’t, and he won’t believe it from anyone but you.”

Joe sighed. “Fine, I’m on Booker duty. But that means I get Bailey too.”

“All I hear is you volunteering to take her on her crack o’dawn walk.”

“Of the two of us, you’re the light sleeper. And the softie. We’ll see who ends up walking her.”

Nicky laughed. “We’ll see.”

“If Andy were here. . .”

“She’d be throwing down money on it being me,” Nicky said.

Joe looked out over the bar and into the living room. It was an open concept flat, and from here he could just spot the top of Booker’s head. “And Booker would match it,” he said. “Just because he could. Competitive little shit.”

“Yeah,” Nicky said quietly, and he shifted to stare at the slowly cooking bowl of pho noodles. Joe closed the distance between them. “Hey,” he said. “Everything’s going to be okay. Destiny, remember?”

Nicky shifted closer, pulling Joe into his arms. Joe rested his head against Nicky’s, let Nicky fold himself around him. One of Nicky’s hands found its way to the small of his back, a warmth pressed there. “Destiny,” Nicky whispered.

“Mmhmm,” Joe said, closing his eyes. Nicky’s hand was tracing circles on his back now, and he was going a little more boneless with every passing moment. “Nicolo.”

“Hm?”

Joe nudged their faces together, eyes shut, until he found Nicky’s mouth with his own, and then he was kissing Nicky. It didn’t matter how many times or different ways they kissed, it always melted his insides.

Nicky’s mouth was hungry, nipping at his even as his body arched into him. Hands tugged him closer.

“You’re trying to kill me,” Joe whispered.

“A familiar feeling, is it not, amore mio,” Nicky whispered back. His hand moved to cup Joe’s face, his thumb rubbing at his cheek. Joe’s eyes fell shut again, because fuck, it never failed to undo him when Nicky called him that. A millennia together, and that was all it took, to break him down.

He bent his head to rest it against Nicky’s. “I love you,” he said, or more like, breathed out, it was that quiet and reverent. But Nicky heard, he always heard, and Nicky’s arms tightened around him.

“I love you too,” Nicky said. “Always.”

Joe kissed him again, and slid his hands under Nicky’s thighs to lift him onto the counter, pressing forward until Nicky was wrapped around him, heels digging into his back and kissing him just as fiercely. For a moment, he forgot where—

“Ah,” Booker said, “I, uh, you know you’re seconds away from knocking the food to the floor, right?”

Nicky pulled away, “is Quynh up too?”

Joe sighed and stepped back, allowing Nicky to straighten and hop down from the counter.

“Yeah,” Booker said, and the weariness in his tone had Joe tearing his eyes away from Nicky. Despite the sleep he’d gotten on the drive here, and the nap he’d just had with Quynh, Booker still looked exhausted. “She went to get changed.”

They fell silent at that, all of them probably remembering the blood splattered on the hem of her skirt. Booker’s blood

He caught Nicky’s eye and forced himself to smile and wink with a confidence he didn’t feel. Yeah, lunch was going to be fine.

Not disastrous at all.

* * *

"Okay, no, it was not like that at all. Being a pirate had its drawbacks," Joe said, laughing and popping the lid off his beer.

"But," Nicky said. "also many many perks. Pirates were open in ways that others in the time period were not. We got away with a lot, back then."

"True, but there was also a lot of backstabbing and superstition and gout. Remember how many times we smuggled Andy on board dressed as a man? It would go fine until one of them said something she didn't like, and then all hell would break loose."

"Oh god, don't remind me," Nicky groaned.

"I thought there were female pirates," Booker said. "Was she really that unusual?

"Not that many. And they tended to dress as men too. Most times, only a few of their crew knew they were women. Considering what women at that time typically wore, it was the practical choice. Can you picture our Andy sailing on a pirate ship, in a dress and corset?"

Booker grinned, the lines around his eyes crinkling. "No, no I cannot."

Joe laughed, and nudged Nicky's knee with his, and Nicky glanced at him, the corner of his delicious mouth quirking up into a smile. It had been a long time, he realized, since he'd sat and joked with Booker like this. The last time they'd all been together had been overshadowed by the upcoming mission, by Nile's awakening, by Merrick. It had been years, since they'd taken the time to just. . . be in the same room together without something else taking priority.

And if he was honest with himself, Joe hadn't been joking much with Nicky either of late. He had been unmoored by their kidnapping, by losing Booker, by Andy's mortality, and he had let it affect how he treated people. Nicky had been patient and understanding — had been nothing short of present and supportive. Even though Joe had not been an easy person to be around, the last half-year. He reached across the table and squeezed Nicky's hand.

Nicky squeezed back, lacing their fingers together. He tilted his head and Joe read the cue there.

"But hey," Joe said. "Pirates aren't what we came here to discuss and since we're mostly done eating. . . Booker, you two have been together, what, a month now? Other than your newfound sobriety, have either of you tried therapy?"

"Ah, well. It's not exactly something you can take to just any therapist," Booker said. He watched Booker sneak a look at Quynh, who was quietly eating the last of her noodles. Quynh didn't look up, her eyes fixed on her bowl. "We've been making due with advice online and the odd support group or two. But most of it. . . just doesn't compare. There's not another group of people who can understand what we've been through—so we've just been, talking to each other mostly. That sort of thing."

"Seems like it's done some good."

"It hasn't made anything worse, so there's that."

"Have you reached out to Copley?" Nicky asked. "I'm sure the CIA has a slew of therapists who know how to help people who can't talk about specifics."

"Copley? I haven't been in contact with him. Not since. . ."

"Oh," Joe said. "Now that I think about it, Andy recruited him after we parted ways. He's helping us now, I'm sure he could get us a list of names. We want to help, but I think having someone more qualified—"

Booker abruptly pushed back his chair and began gathering up their empty bowls. Without meeting anyone's eyes he slunk into the kitchen. Quynh looked up at them, her mouth set in a harsh line. Joe glanced over at Nicky and frowned.

"You. . . hit a nerve," Quynh said quietly. The first words she'd said to either of them since they'd arrived.

"Which part?" Nicky said.

"Both. Reminders of what he did are. . . not easy for Booker. And, well, therapy is a topic we—" There was the sound of claws on tile from the kitchen, and Joe relaxed. If Bailey was awake, he had no doubt she was already begging Booker for attention.

"Therapy is a touchy topic," Quynh said.

"Quynh," Nicky said. "I need to ask, how many times have you killed him?"

All sound from the kitchen ceased. Before Nicky spoke, Joe had been able to hear Booker washing dishes, hear him murmuring in French to Bailey. He hadn't noticed the noise until it was gone. Quynh lowered her eyes. "I don't know," she said, slowly. "I. . . I lost count."

Booker strode back into the room, his arms full of a solemn Bailey. She reminded Joe of Nicky sometimes, her ability to pick up on their moods was uncanny, as was her mirrored tendency to go quiet. Booker didn't say anything for a long moment, just stood there.

"Please leave it alone," Booker said plaintively. "Come on, it's not like I didn't come back every time."

"That doesn't make it better," Nicky said.

"But. . . okay _better_ might be pushing it. But, it's not permanent. I come back."

"It's not going to happen anymore," Joe said, leaning forward with a frown. "Right, Quynh?"

"Joe," Booker growled, but he kept his eyes on Quynh, waiting for her to answer.

"I wish I could say yes. Guarantee that. I want to. But, honestly Yusuf, I don't always—" Quynh glanced over at Booker. "I don't have control," she said. Booker was staring down at Bailey.

Joe tried to think of something to say to that. Beside him, Nicky's stillness told him how unnerved and upset he was. With no other cue from Nicky, Joe knew he had to take over talking. "Okay, "Joe said. "Okay, so we just don't let you. . . kill him anymore."

"Convince him to defend himself, then."

"Booker," Joe sighed.

"Please, can we talk about something else," Booker said. "Anything else. Please, for the love of God, can we change the subject? Joe, you can kick my ass and I'll have a heart-to-heart with Nicky, just—let's do it later. Please, not today?"

"Booker," Joe said again. "This isn't. . . we're concerned okay? Immortal or not, being killed over and over like that, it's not healthy. We just—"

"Damn it, Joe," Booker said, turning on his heel. "Come get me when you're ready to talk about something else," he said, stalking out on the balcony.

The three of them were left at the table, sitting in stunned silence. Joe considered saying something, he could always come up with _something_ to say, but was there a point? He'd expected something to happen today, but he was surprised—that Booker had been the one to snap. Though, a sober Booker might be one with a shorter fuse. It was strange to realize how much he might not know about Booker. He kept his walls so high, that Joe didn't have much sense of what Booker was really like. He'd seen the way Booker distanced himself, every now and then he'd caught a small unguarded moment, usually around Andy. But those were the only times he’d felt he’d seen a glimpse of what Booker was like — underneath his guilt and grief.

It wasn’t a new revelation, but it was one that hadn’t used to bother him. In a way, this feeling of caring for someone, but not really _knowing them_ , reminded him of his early years with Nicky.

There had been a night, during one of the many battles for Jerusalem, when they’d both known it was almost over. They had fought each other for 200 years, done the best they could to kill the other permanently, and it hadn’t been enough. They’d both known for a century that this war had no true victor, and that night, they’d called a true and bedded down together far away from their camps. They’d both known, that come morning, there would be bloodshed and misery and defeat.

He had memorized Nicky’s face for the first time that night, mapped the beautiful cut of his jaw, stared at his hands as he cleaned his longsword. _I’m done fighting_ , Nicky had said, and Joe had watched as his eyes went wide, probably because he hadn’t meant to tell Joe that. He’d probably forgotten Joe spoke Italian again.

_What do you mean, you’re done fighting?_

_I mean, tomorrow I’m walking away._

_So you’re not fighting. . . in the battle?_

_Yes. Also, I am done fighting you._

Nicky had reclined back against a rock then, the shadows hiding his expression from Joe.

 _Why?_ Joe had asked.

 _I’m tired,_ Nicky had said, matter-of-fact. _I’m heartsick from spilling so much blood for so little reason. If that angers God, well, then may my next death be my last._

 _Don’t say that,_ Joe had whispered.

 _I thought you’d be pleased_ , Nicky had said, reaching for the canteen by the fire. He’d taken a long swig before replacing the lid and lobbing it to Joe. _One less Frank to run out of your homeland._

Instead of answering, Joe took a long drink from the canteen. He wished it was something stronger than water.

 _You could leave with me_ , Nicky had said.

He had sat there in silence, absorbing the layers underneath that offer. The strength it took to make it. Years spent fighting each other meant he couldn’t pretend Nicky was anything other than fiercely brave. But, this was a different kind of bravery. Nicky’s face had still been shadowed, the only hint to how vulnerable the offer made him was in the tone of his voice and how still he was sitting. He’d looked as if he wasn’t breathing, he was so still.

 _Yusuf, please think about it,_ Nicky had said after a while.

_Where would we go?_

_Anywhere you want. We could. . . You still dream of them, don’t you? The women? We could. . . go find them._

_Oh, are we talking about destiny again?_

Nicky had stiffened. He’d been still before, but it had been a patient kind of still, a predator waiting for the right moment. The second stillness was full of tension. Joe had winced, ashamed of how cutting his words had been. How revealing they were. It laid him bare, told Nicky that his early attempts to make peace with Joe hadn’t been misunderstood. Joe had allowed Nicky to believe he’d picked up Italian later, pretended he barely understood Latin, had hidden behind the perceived language barrier until Nicky gave up on trying to talk to him. A pathetic move, one he’d often regretted.

Eventually, Joe had been the one to initiate their first truce, sometime between their 100th and 150th year. But he’d never even hinted he’d understood Nicky before that. Until that night, when his shock and bitterness gave him away.

 _Do you. . ._ he had said, striving to keep his tone casual. _Do you still think they have it right? That we were put here, not to balance our two sides in battle, but to be on the same side?_

 _Yes_ , Nicky said simply, the way he might say _yes_ when Joe asked if wanted water or to rest. It was like he thought the answer was foregone—obvious. Nicky straightened up, leaning forward and closer to the fire. Joe took a moment to study him in the light.

The tension from earlier was gone, Nicky had accepted the paltry peace offering, then.

 _The question is_ , Nicky had said, placing his sword to the side and out of easy reach. _What do you think?_

 _Ah,_ Joe had said, and he had moved his scimitar farther away as well. Their camp was a small one, tucked into the side of a cliff. They hadn’t done much to make it more comfortable, their packs serving as pillows, the fire the centerpiece between them. He had turned to stare at the dancing flames then, because somehow, that had been easier than watching Nicky, who was siting there and looking. . . beautiful, if he were honest. Sandy and bloody from that day’s fight, with the beginnings of stubble around that delicious mouth. Most times, Joe preferred Nicky with a clean shave, but that night he remembered wishing for the beard. It was less distracting.

 _I suppose that means you haven’t decided yet,_ Nicky was saying. _Or is that too optimistic?_

_I’m tired of fighting you, too. You are an exhausting opponent, Nicolo. Too stubborn to die._

_I could say the same to you. I notice you didn’t say whether you would leave with me,_ Nicky had said shrewdly.

_Where would you start looking for them?_

_Andromache and Quynh? I recognized a landmark in my last dream, I think they’re in Greece._

_So you’re heading to the coast. It has been a while since I sailed._

Nicky had smiled, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. _I bet you like sailing. It makes me horribly sick._

 _Let’s say I join you,_ Joe had said. _What do you want from me? Because if you somehow think we’re going to get along better because we’re not actively fighting, I think we both know that’s not true._

Nicky’s smile fell away. _Nothing_ , he had said. _I expect nothing from you but your company._

 _Oh_ , Joe had said.

It was funny, how that simple statement had stabbed him, in his middle. As deft and searing as Nicky’s long sword. Truth was, he wasn’t sure he could stop killing Nicky. Before, he had thought nights like this were the most painful. When he’d find himself sharing food and drink, and get the opportunity to look at Nicky, and he would remember what those arms felt like, wrapped tight around him. What Nicky’s body felt like against his. Sometimes, he’d imagine what it might feel like to touch without the violence. He’d imagined pressing his mouth to Nicky’s to see what sounds he could draw forth. Finding out that he had the opportunity to travel with Nicky, but not fight—not touch him—well that might be a new type of torture.

 _You sure you won’t want to kill me after sustained exposure?_ He’d asked lightly. _You’ve certainly killed me out of annoyance before._

 _I think that’s behind me,_ Nicky had said. _But, if that’s why you’re hesitating, I give you my word I won’t lay hands on you._

Joe had winced, realizing as that moment that he and Nicky had been speaking past each other and operating under such different goals. The last thing Joe had wanted, was for Nicky to swear he wouldn’t touch him. But Nicky just wanted his company and was trying to do anything to convince him. It was as endearing as it was painful.

 _Nicolo_ , he had said, and he’d tried to make his voice sound normal but he could hear how tight it was. Damn it all. His hands had clenched into fists. _What if I want you to lay hands on me?_

 _Yusuf_ , Nicky had said, and he’d stood and walked over to his side of the fire. _Can I sit here?_

 _I. . . yes, of course_.

Nicky had lowered himself down to sit just in front of Joe, the fire behind him lighting up his silhouette.

 _There are many reasons, a man might choose to be a priest in my faith_ , Nicky had said, and put his hand over Joe’s. _For me, I chose it because I knew from a young age that I did not want what a man should. A wife, mainly._

 _Oh_ , Joe had said. Maybe he shouldn’t have assumed Nicky only wanted his company. Maybe, he hadn’t been the only one imagining. Nicky’s hand was still on his. _Well_ , he’d managed. _Look at that. I have no desire to take a wife, either._

_I had hoped that might be so._

_Yes, well. It is._

Nicky’s eyes were steady on his. That hand still resting on his, and Joe had glanced down at it. Nicky was waiting, he realized. He wouldn’t go any further than this, he’d just sit there and wait for Joe to decide what he wanted. Joe twisted his hand to grasp Nicky’s, lifting it to his face, studying it. He brushed his lips across Nicky’s knuckles, gently. And then, while matching Nicky’s stare, he turned that hand over and pressed his mouth to the center of Nicky’s palm. He cradled it against his cheek, feeling the way Nicky jumped, ever so slightly. Joe’s heart started beating louder, faster, and it was a wonder Nicky couldn’t hear the leap of it.

 _So_ , Joe had said, coughing to clear the dryness in his throat. _Let’s say I go with you. Would there be more of this kind of touching?_

Nicky had gently pulled his hand back. Still, those eyes hadn’t left Joe’s face. He rose and settled himself between Joe’s knees, which had fallen open at some point. Joe’s hands had twitched with the desire to tug Nicky closer. Then he could fall back, take Nicky with him, and they’d be deliciously pressed together. While he was plotting how to go about doing that, casually, Nicky’s hands had found his jaw. Joe’s brain had shutdown as Nicky cradled his face.

Just when he was sure Nicky was about to kiss him, Nicky pulled back. It had taken Joe several torturous heartbeats to understand why.

Still, it had staggered him how much he didn’t know about Nicky. Who was apparently brave enough to make his intentions clear, but not confident enough in his welcome to take the final step and act on them.

That moment was one Joe looked back on, and considered the beginning of him understanding the odd, wonderful, man he loved.

 _May I?_ Joe had whispered.

Nicky had nodded with a relieved smile, and Joe had closed the distance between them to taste it. It was. . . there were no words to describe what kissing those lips had felt like, for the things they were doing to Joe. It was infinitely tender, and somehow shy. How did anyone kiss _shyly_? It was like their recent battles, full of hesitation, and slow meetings between them. Just, without the swords and blood. His world hand narrowed down to Nicky’s mouth, Nicky’s hands, Nicky’s breath mingling with his.

There was a whole world here, and now that he’d had a taste he wouldn’t give it up. Nicky crawled closer and they lowered down to the ground—not once did they stop kissing or touching. It had knocked the air from his lungs, being kissed like that. Nicky’s hand had found the back of his neck, his thumb gently rubbing there. Joe let himself sink into it, into the ground, boneless and content.

Nicky had loomed over him, his other arm braced on the ground next to Joe’s head to keep him there. He’d pulled back slightly, waiting for Joe to look at him before speaking. _This alright?_ He’d asked and Joe had answered by tugging his shoulders, forceful enough Nicky lost his balance and fell on top of Joe.

 _Much better_ , he’d said, and Nicky had laughed. The sound of it had made something in Joe soar, and he’d kissed Nicky, trying to recreate the same mix of gentle hunger. _Nicolo_ , he’d murmured, his hands tangled in Nicky’s hair, caressing and touching.

Nicky had met him kiss for kiss. Touch for touch. They hadn’t done more than that—not that particular night. But that had been their beginning.

He remembered being so disconcerted that night, so aware of how little he’d known of Nicky. How much he’d already cared for him. Now, again, it had taken him over 200 years to reach that moment with someone.

What did that say about him? Probably nothing good.

“Joe,” Nicky said now, leaning across the table. “Booker duty?”

“Why do I feel like I got the raw end of this deal?”

Nicky cast a pointed look at Quynh, who had gone back to staring at her hands. Which, okay, fair.

“Alright, alright,” Joe said with a short laugh. He rose from the table, and downed the last of his beer. And because he couldn’t resist, he leant over to brush his lips against Nicky’s temple. “I’ll go talk to him. If he pitches me over the side, be gentle when you carry me back up the stairs.”

* * *

The glass door slid shut behind him, with a quiet _snick_. He stood there, debating different ways to approach Booker.

“Drew the short straw?”

“Nah, Nicky did,” Joe said. “Probably neither of us got the better deal. Either way, it’s someone we care about in pain. Still confident coming to us was the solution?”

“Well, the foods already improved.”

“That’s a pretty low bar considering all the takeout in your fridge.”

“Mm. You did just ambush me in the middle of an otherwise pleasant lunch.”

“Ah, yes.” Joe walked over and leant against the railing next to Booker. At their feet, Bailey began to tug on his pant leg with her teeth. Probably displeased that they weren’t showering her with attention.

“You going to keep pushing therapy?”

“It’s that or having the discussion we tabled back at the house.”

“Picking my poison, then.”

“If you want to look at it that way.”

“You think therapy will help me, help her?” Booker nodded back at the glass door, through which they could see Nicky clearing the rest of the dishes while Quynh sat and studied her glass of water. Nicky was saying something to her, his face earnest, and Quynh nodded.

“I think,” Joe said, watching them. “That we’ve been too quick to dismiss all of our mental health. You didn’t talk to us, Book. Maybe an impartial ear will help.”

“Guess we’re having _that_ talk then.”

“You can’t tell me you want to drag it out. You know we only have so long before Nile has a dream that reveals where Quynh is. Who she’s with.”

Booker shoved his hands in his pockets, looking down at his feet. “Yeah, I know. So, let’s get it over with then. Where do you want to start? With how and where I fucked up? Or do you want to explain why you’re not spitting mad anymore.”

Joe smiled. “I’ll start. I was angry. But not, exactly, at you. I hated the situation and I was pissed as all hell that we’d gotten into it because we weren’t paying attention. Because we’d all taken our loyalty to each other for granted.”

“It. . . my choices weren’t made out of disloyalty. I swear, I thought—“

“I know. That wasn’t what I meant. What I mean is, we took _you_ for granted, Booker. We didn’t do enough to make sure you were okay.”

They stood in silence for a few minutes, and Booker seemed transfixed with the sight of Bailey playing with his shoelaces. He didn’t once glance at Joe. “I’m sorry, is what I’m trying to say.”

“You—you’re not the one who should be apologizing. Christ, Joe. I’m the one who is sorry. So fucking sorry.”

“So we’re both sorry.”

Booker was frowning, and then, he stooped down to scoop Bailey into his arms. Cuddling her close and tickling her belly.

“It. . . can’t be that easy,” he said.

“Alright,” Joe said. “There is one thing I wanted to ask you about.”

“Of course. I’ll answer, if I can. Some of it, I don’t understand myself.”

It was Joe’s turn to stare at his feet. The question he wanted to ask, it was one he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to. But he had to ask. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, so before you said you didn’t mean for it to go down. How it did. So, my question is, how was it meant to go?”

“Well,” Booker said. “That. . . you don’t pull any punches, I see. For starters, I never spoke with anyone other Copley—my biggest mistake. I assumed the people working with him were fundamentally good the way he was. . . the way he is.”

Joe frowned at him, puzzled, but Booker kept going. “In terms of what I wanted to happen, I mean. Nile was a surprise. And the kidnapping? Was supposed to get us all at once. And it wasn’t supposed to end in a lab.”

“Where was it supposed to end,” Joe said.

“I just. . . I wanted, it was supposed to end in a room. Any room. All of us, you, me, Nicky, Andy and Copley. I was so sure if we could explain it, you all would understand. I wanted it to be voluntary. I thought we would all want—the choice. Of when to end it all.”

“I see,” Joe said. He was beginning to understand what Booker’s intentions had been, but that still left one question. “But, why kidnap us at all? Why not just talk to us in a safe house?”

Booker pressed his face close to Bailey’s letting her lick and snuffle at his cheek. “Yeah,” he said. “Because it's that simple. Can you remember the last time we met up, just to talk? No mission, no crisis behind it? It’s not like you guys were around for Sunday dinners—“

“So you conspired with Copley to have us kidnapped.”

“Yeah,” Booker said, his voice sounded like he might be about to pitch himself over the balcony to escape this conversation. Probably, having Bailey in his arms was the only thing stopping him. “Yeah, that’s what I did.”

Joe turned his gaze back to inside the apartment. He kept his gaze on Nicky's figure, let the remembered fear and rage wash over him. Waited until it passed and let his muscles go loose and relaxed in its wake. He waited until he could breathe evenly. _Find your center_ , Nicky would say, those gentle hands grasping his. _Master your emotions lest you be ruled by them._ It was easier said than done for Joe. He often failed. But he was determined that this wouldn’t be one of those times.

“You were right,” Joe said. “About one thing. The ability to control when we lose our immortality? To never have to face the day where Nicky is gone but I’m not? That is something I would want.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ here.”

“Yeah. The difference between us is, I don’t think any amount of science will give us that. And, much as I hate it, maybe that’s for the better. Nicky would say it’s the uncertainty that keeps us human.”

A long pause. Booker looked down at Bailey, her eyelids were drooping with sleep. Joe gave it a few more minutes before she was out cold. “Yeah,” Booker said, finally. “Thanks, I hate it.”

Joe grinned. “You sound like Nile.”

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

“Yes, you do,” Joe said, and he straightened and stretched his arms above his head. “Seriously, Booker, we’re good. There are things still to talk about, but nothing that’ll change that.”

Booker straightened too, turning to face Joe. “That. . . it means a lot, Joe. Thank you. For coming back with me, for listening. For everything.”

“Don’t mention it,” Joe said. He reached over to clasp Booker’s shoulder. “We messed up too. Now, ready to go back inside?”

“We probably should. It doesn’t look like Nicky’s having any success starting a conversation.”

“He does seem to be struggling,” Joe said ruefully, and Booker grinned. He nodded his head and led the way over to the door, resisting the urge to look back and make sure Booker was following.

Trust had to start again somewhere, after all.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?
> 
> I tried to differentiate the flashback as much as possibly w/o fully separating it from the scene it ties into - please let me know if you think it's too confusing and I'll see what I can do.


	4. Nicky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nicky's chapter flowed naturally from Joe's, which equals a quicker update! 
> 
> Sidenote: as this story goes on I'm increasingly aware that a lot of it revolves around eating, cooking, and sleeping. Which, make sense I guess, since that's the majority of my life during shutdown lol. Hopefully that's not too boring!

* * *

Sleep’s embrace was warm and strong, enfolding him. He burrowed into the darkness. Slowly he registered a missing weight, sleep’s arms were tight around him but physical arms were missing. _Joe_ , he opened his mouth to say, his hand fumbling for the gun stuffed between the mattress and arm of the couch. _Yusuf_ , he tried again. Distantly, he was aware it came out more as a grunt than a word.

“I’m right here, Nicky. Go back to sleep.”

“No. . . you,” he managed.

“If I don’t answer these messages Nile and Andy will be on the warpath looking for us. Relax, I’ll curl back around you in a minute.” Joe was typing away at his phone, the small sound of the keyboard reverberating in Nicky’s sleep-addled brain.

The embrace of sleep slipped further away every moment. He tucked the gun back in it’s spot and rolled over. He blinked and struggled to marshal his thoughts into something coherent. Joe was propped against some pillows, holding his phone close to his face as he tapped away at it. It appeared it was still nighttime, out through the glass balcony doors. He glanced around the flat, taking stock: their bags were stacked on an armchair to make room for the pull-out couch, the door Quynh and Booker had disappeared into still firmly shut, and the lump at the foot of the mattress that was Bailey was still with sleep.

“That could have waited till morning,” Nicky said.

“I couldn’t sleep anyway,” Joe said, still typing. “Nile wants to know if we ever dream of each other’s past instead of the present.”

Nicky shifted closer. He took advantage of Joe’s arms being raised, to slip over and sprawl across Joe’s chest. Nicky propped his chin on his forearm and peered up at Joe’s face. It was lit with the artificial light of the iPhone Nile had insisted he get.

“What’d you tell her,” he said quietly.

“The truth. That anything that isn’t the present is a regular dream.”

“You think she saw enough to realize Quynh’s out?”

“Doesn’t sound that way. Seems she just got a brief flash.”

“Joe.” He reached up and tugged the phone from his grasp. Pressed the power button until the light faded away. “You need your rest.”

“I’m fine.”

But Joe didn’t reach for the phone, and he let Nicky set it on the side table. His eyes shut as Nicky watched. “Really, Nicky. I just—I can’t sleep.”

Nicky sighed. Sometimes their nights went like this. Sleeping in a new place was often difficult for Joe. It wasn’t that Nicky didn’t understand why, he didn’t much care for it either, but he’d always been able to will himself to sleep. As long as Joe was nearby. He’d learned over the years not to take it personally that his presence didn’t offer Joe the same respite. Truth was, Joe just didn’t like sleep. Too many dreams, too many nightmares, too many horrors to relive. On good nights, he slept about four hours.

“I’m fine,” Joe repeated. His voice was hoarse and his eyes bloodshot.

“Alright,” Nicky murmured. “Lie down with me, anyway.” He settled back onto his side of the mattress, tugging at Joe until he moved with him. Every muscle in Joe’s back was tense, unyielding under his hand. Nights like this, Nicky wished they could take sleep aids. But the only ones strong enough to work, were overpowering to the point they’d be unable to wake from nightmares. Not worth the trade. Joe was laying on his chest, eyes wide open. His breathing shallow and too fast.

“Sorry,” Joe whispered.

“Mm,” Nicky hummed, nuzzling Joe’s curls. He inhaled the scent of his minty pomade. Joe’s hand found his hip and clung there.

“My talk with Book,” Joe said, his voice taught. Revealing the inner turmoil Nicky already knew was there. “It brought up a lot of. . . memories.”

“I know.”

“Think we made any headway with Quynh?” Joe asked after a moment, so quiet that Nicky almost missed it. He could feel the tension leaving Joe, replaced by a minute tremor. Only for a few more moments. Then, Joe’s body would clue in that he was safe and relax.

“Some, yeah,” he said. After that near disastrous lunch, they’d spent the rest of the afternoon and evening trying to get Quynh to talk. She’d been stubbornly silent, sticking close enough to Booker she may as well have been his shadow. But she hadn’t attacked. Or tried to run them out.

It wasn’t much—but it was something.

His answer seemed to satisfy Joe. In the next five minutes, the tremors had stopped and Joe passed out. Nicky was an old hand at coaxing Joe to sleep and stay sleeping—he had the method of it down to a fine art. He held him close, one hand stroking his spine and the other threading through his hair. Easing him back to sleep every time he twitched and fought to wake. The final moment where Joe fully surrendered was long in coming, but it always happened. Sweet relief followed. Nicky sighed. Pressed a kiss to Joe’s head.

He lay awake, guarding Joe’s sleep. He watched the light change in the room, the sunrise painting his surroundings in a mix of soft pinks and purples. The phone buzzed from where he’d left it and he reached over to grab it before the sound woke Joe.

_You missed a check in_ , Andy had texted, and Nicky answered with a curt, _we’re fine_. Based on the message history, Joe had been texting Nile but had forgotten to respond to Andy—who was paranoid enough after the Merrick ordeal to think that was suspect. _Nicky_ , she responded. _Where are you?_

_France. Checking on Booker._ He typed back—let her assume they were doing so from afar.

There was a pause, the three dots indicating she was typing, starting and stopping several times over.

_How is he?_

_He’s been better_ , Nicky answered.

Her end of the conversation went silent, the dots making no reappearance. Just as he was about to expand on his last message, Joe shifted.

“Hey,” Joe croaked, raising his head just enough to peer at Nicky. His curls fell across his forehead and Nicky itched to brush them back. Dawn’s light was not yet bright enough to have been what roused Joe, still, he had woken and was blinking up at him. “Nicolo,” he mumbled, letting his head thunk back down onto Nicky’s chest.

“We’re safe,” Nicky soothed, setting the phone aside to stroke Joe’s back. And Joe stretched under his hand, arching all the way down to his toes before going boneless. Joe smiled sleepily, shifting closer and tucking his face against Nicky’s neck. He always reminded Nicky a bit of the big predatory cats when he was half-awake like this. All sinewy muscle, in repose, but ever dangerous. Joe’s hand fumbled for the blankets, drawing them up and more firmly over them both.

“Why’re you awake,” he mumbled, his breath tickling Nicky’s skin.

“It’s my turn to stand watch.”

“Well, you’re doing it wrong. Not exactly standing, are you?”

“That a hint you want the bed to yourself?”

“No,” Joe said. His lips traced a path down the curve of Nicky neck, across his collarbone and over to his shoulder.

“You sure? I can see that you want your space.”

“Cease your teasing.”

“Never.”

“Mm,” Joe hummed contentedly, his face coming up to nudge and nuzzle Nicky’s. Now that he was closer, Nicky matched his nudges, adjusting so that their lips met in a kiss. Joe raised up to meet him, his mouth warm and biting.

Joe was straddling him, until he sat back suddenly, balancing on Nicky’s thighs. “We’re done attempting to sleep, yes?”

“Yes,” Nicky breathed, tugging Joe back down with every intention of kissing him senseless. Until they both—

There was a shout, followed by a thud, from the direction of the flat’s single bedroom.

“Joe,” he said, “Get off.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. You don’t think. . .” Joe trailed off, but Nicky was already up and across the room. He threw open the door and froze, taking in the scene: a chair by the bed was upended, Booker was on the ground, Quynh on top of him. Her hands were wrapped around his throat—strangling him.

Booker’s hands were clasping her wrists, but he wasn’t restraining her.

“Quynh,” Nicky said. When she gave no sign she’d heard him, he lifted her bodily off of Booker, his arms looped under hers. She struggled and flailed like a child, with the strength of a warrior. Her elbows jabbed into his ribs, her heels kicking at his shins. He caught her arms and folded them against her middle, and stumbled backwards towards the bed. He fell back, pulling her with him. Then, he trapped her feet between his ankles, effectively restraining her.

She continued to struggle and he tucked his chin over her shoulder. “Quynh,” he murmured in her ear. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re not in that coffin anymore. It’s okay.”

Peripherally, he was aware of Joe following him into the room and helping Booker back to his feet. He listened as they retreated to the bathroom, the majority of his focus on the woman in his arms.

He held her there, and willed himself to remember the meditation exercises she’d taught him not long after they’d met. If anything could her reach her now, it would be those. Something she’d used to master herself for centuries. “Breathe with me, Quynh,” he said. “Breathe in—1, 2, 3, 4–hold, and out—1, 2, 3, 4.”

At first, she didn’t seem to hear him. And then, on his third time through the exercise, he heard her take a long inhale in time with his. He tightened his grip as she twitched and refocused on his breathing. He didn’t bother reciting the steps, Quynh matching him instinctively. He willed himself to find his center—so that she might find hers.

After an eternity, Quynh went limp in his arms.

He opened his eyes to find Joe leaning in the bathroom doorway, Booker hovering just beyond. Both watching him. “She fell asleep,” Joe said gravely. Nicky began the slow process of untangling himself from Quynh. She didn’t so much as twitch, the rest she’d fallen into deep and stubborn. Once he was free, he tilted his head towards the living room.

Joe nodded, moving aside to let Booker pass. There was a moment where it seemed like Booker was going to move towards Quynh, and Nicky placed himself between them, arching his brows until Booker conceded and went through the door. Joe followed on his heels.

He waited a moment longer, to ensure Quynh was truly out. When she didn’t so much as twitch, he joined them in the living room and shut the door behind him. He sagged against it, letting his eyes fall shut.

It was far too early for this.

“Nicky?” That was Joe. He opened his eyes to find Joe hovering at his elbow. Booker was sitting at the kitchen table—head in his hands. The purple bruises circling his neck already fading. On the pullout bed, Bailey slept on, blissfully ignorant. Probably the only one of them to sleep uninterrupted that night.

“Nicky? You’re alright,” Joe said, quietly. “Tell me you’re alright.”

He straightened off of the door. Half-expected to fall over without it holding him up. “I’m alright,” he said, meeting Joe’s eyes. Resting there. Of course, he wasn’t alright. But Joe already knew that. Pinning Quynh down like that made him feel like the lowest of the lows, as if he was as bad as the people who had stuck her in the coffin and left her at the bottom of the ocean.

“I hate that I can’t protect her. Protect all of you,” Nicky said.

“I know,” Joe said.

“And I think what she really needs is Andy. An immortal Andy. And I hate that we can’t give her that.”

“I know.”

“Joe, I feel like we’re failing. Like I’m failing.”

Instead of answering aloud, Joe crossed the unnamed barrier between them and pulled Nicky into his arms. So he was snug against him. Joe’s hand found his hip, his thumb rubbing circles there. He was always doing that. Scaling any walls Nicky had until they were both inside. Them against everything else. “You’re not failing,” he said. Nicky closed his eyes.

“I am,” he murmured. “I don’t know what to do. How to help.”

“Mm. Imagine it was you, what would you need in her place?”

Nicky didn’t hesitate. “You.”

“That’s what I would want, too. I think the best we can do is find a safe way to reunite her with Andy.”

“How?”

Joe’s fingers brushed at his hairline, his brow, trailed down to cup his jaw. “We’ll figure it out,” he murmured. Nicky let his forehead fall forward to rest against Joe’s.

“Want me to cook breakfast?” Joe asked.

“Mm. That would be nice.”

“I’m thinking fried eggs and tomatoes. Maybe some toast.” Joe said, his hands were still caressing Nicky’s face. “Definitely coffee.”

“Coffee,” Nicky repeated, reverent.

“I’ll get a pot going.” Joe slipped free from his grasp and retreated to the kitchen. Without really thinking about it, Nicky stumbled after him. He took a detour to the kitchen table to ruffle Booker’s hair, the squawk that followed making him grin.

Joe was messing with the coffee maker when he caught up and he leaned against the counter next to it. Prime placement to ensure he got some, sooner than later. “What are Nile and Andy up to?”

“Stalking her brother, apparently. He’s got a new girlfriend or something.”

“Nile wants to make sure she’s up to snuff?”

“Mm.” Joe emerged from the fridge, balancing a couple of tomatoes on top of the egg carton. “Something like that. Andy’ll make sure she doesn’t get too close.”

Nicky laughed. “She’s got the most practice corralling new immortals.”

“Indeed she does.”

The coffee machine beeped. “Mugs are in the cabinet by the sink,” Booker called, and Nicky found them, looping the handles of three mugs over his fingers. He grabbed the pot and poured a generous helping of coffee into each.

Booker was still just sitting at the table. Examining the grain in the wood as if the answers to the universe could be found there. He reached for the mug Nicky laced by his elbow. His gaze didn’t move. Nicky squeezed his shoulder and then moved back to the kitchen. None of them were morning people, and Booker hadn’t exactly had an easy wake-up call. He’d let him brood for a bit. Then, he and Joe would set about cheering him up. Food would definitely help, on that front.

“That for me?” Joe asked. He took the second mug from Nicky, his other hand wielding a spatula. "Mm." Nicky leant against the counter by the stove, cradling the last coffee between his palms. The warmth biting. And comforting.

The room fell into an easy silence, the only sound the sizzling from the frying pan. Nicky finished off his coffee in a couple of long gulps, setting it aside to refill when it was time to eat.

Nicky looped his arms around Joe and leaned into him from behind. "I love it when you cook," he murmured, nuzzling at Joe's face.

"I should do it more often, then."

"Mmm, maybe. But, I'd have to reward you like this. And, then—Booker will murder us both for cuddling in his kitchen."

"As long as you keep bringing me coffee," Booker grumbled. "I'll turn a blind eye."

Joe laughed and ducked out of his grip, but Nicky grabbed his hands, just dodging get smacked in the face by the spatula. Joe was still laughing, and it turned into a kiss, the spatula dropping with a small _thunk_. And Joe's hands were around his back, twining in his hair. "Hear that, Booker gave us permission," Joe murmured.

"I don't think he meant it to go this far," Nicky said, in between kisses.

"He should have been more specific."

Joe was kissing his neck, trailing the length of his jaw. Nicky closed his eyes and let his head fall back. "We're all going to be okay," Joe whispered into his collarbone.

"Mm. Eventually, yes."

He let Joe back him into the counter, let Joe lift him into the counter, step between his legs. Let Joe's mouth capture his, kissing him, sharing his breath and his smile. God, his mouth tasted of coffee and Nicky's chased it. He surrendered to it, to Joe's hunger for him.

"Oi, the food's burning," Booker said. "I revoke your cuddling privileges until you feed me and bring me coffee."

"Joe," he said hoarsely.

"Yeah, yeah, in a second," Joe said, leaning down, his mouth finding Nicky's for one more kiss. Somewhere, Booker cleared his throat. "Fine." Joe untangled from Nicky and grabbed the pan and a stack of plates. Left the kitchen to deliver it to Booker.

Nicky stayed where he was on the counter, his breathing fast and uneven. He let his mind go quiet, focusing on the simple fact that everything was okay. _We're all going to be okay_ , Joe had said. And Nicky had believed him. Joe always knew what to say—to comfort him, to undo him. It came easily to him.

Words were easy for Joe. He bent them to his will, he crafted poems and love declarations from thin air. The opposite was true of Nicky. He never knew if he was saying the right thing. No matter how many languages he learned, he still struggled to land on suitable words for what he wanted to communicate. That morning, reclining on the counter, for once, he had the words for something he wanted to say. Something he had to say. "I love you," he murmured into the bright and empty kitchen.

And Joe wandered back in, a smile on his face. He walked over to Nicky and picked up his hand, lifting it to brush his lips over Nicky's knuckles. Pressed his mouth to the center of Nicky's palm. A gesture that never failed to remind him of that night outside Jerusalem. The end of that war and the beginning of them. Words were easy for Joe—but he had other ways of telling Nicky he loved him.

"Are you coming?"

"Yeah. Right behind you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?
> 
> Next chapter will be either Nile or Andy - I haven't decided which perspective I want to use yet.


	5. Nile

* * *

"Hey," Nile answered the video call on her phone. She didn't look away from the laptop she was using, because damn if Copley hadn't taken her request for pictures of her mother and brother and gone the extra mile. The album he'd sent her was huge. All pictures of them in public, nothing that invaded their privacy, but enough that she could see that they were healthy and moving on.

"Nile?"

To her surprise, it was Nicky on the other end of the call, and at a glance, he was far too close to the camera, which was probably happening because her phone was pointing up at the ceiling instead of towards her. He didn't say anything further just frowned at the camera, and with a laugh, she reached over to hold the phone properly. "Nicky," she said. "It's good to see you."

Nicky adjusted so his face wasn't the sole thing in focus of the camera. "It is good to see you as well, if a bit odd."

"You'll get used to it after the first few calls, trust me. It won't be weird at all. And this way, you don't have to worry about forgetting what me and Andy look like."

Nicky blinked and looked taken aback. Or mildly annoyed, she was still learning to read Nicky's expressions. They tended to be so minute. "Just a figure of speech," Nile said. "I don't actually think you could forget our faces. I've seen Joe's sketchbook. You have plenty of references if your memory goes fuzzy between meet-ups."

"It's not as far-fetched as it sounds. I couldn't tell you my mother's name, let alone what she looked like. You'd be surprised what time will steal away."

Nile sighed. "Andy's given me the speech. I'd rather not think about it. Unless, well, do you want to talk about it?"

"You're very sweet, Nile."

She laughed at that, because neither her brother nor her old squad would have said the same thing. Christ, they'd probably say the opposite. She'd always been the perfectionistic task-master. But that wasn't the sort of thing you told people. Nicky would discover it for himself, given time. She sat up from where she'd been laying on her stomach, getting comfortable with her back against the wall.

"So anyway," Nile said. "I'm supposed to be meeting back up with Andy soon, so if you called for a reason and not just to say hi. . ." She trailed off, but Nicky just looked at her, the small indicators of humor—the wrinkle at his eyes, the quirk in the corner of his mouth—fading away to something more solemn.

“There’s something I need to ask you,” he said. “And I’m not sure how to do it without raising your hopes for something I might be wrong about. Nile, do you trust me?”

Nile frowned. Of the things she might expect Nicky to ask her, this had not been anywhere on the list. “What kind of question is that? Of course, I do.”

“This is important. Is that, ‘of course I trust you to watch my back in a battle—but only to a certain extent outside of that’? Because, I need you to trust me enough to answer some questions without asking too many of your own. How _much_ do you trust me, Nile?”

Nile met his gaze, careful to hold her phone steady so there was no chance he’d miss her sincerity. “I trust you. Nicky. Ask your questions.”

Nicky looked at her, his expression was still inscrutable. “You were with Andy the most, back then. If you had to say, when do you think she lost her immortality?”

Nile blinked at him. What did that matter? No one had seemed to think it was important before. It mattered that Andy was mortal, of course it did, but the when of it had never been questioned. “Ah. . .” she said. “Well. She was still healing when she came to get me. Healed right up during our scuffle.”

“So it didn’t coincide with you joining our ranks. Not immediately. That’s what I suspected but it’s always good to get confirmation. The church fight must have been when she realized then.”

“Yeah, I guess. I don’t think she got injured anywhere else along the way. But, I don’t understand why this is important. Are you just curious?”

“Mm. Something like that. She told you her theory on why you joined us now, didn’t she.”

“Uh huh,” Nile said. “Something about being here to remind her what the fresh rush of being invincible was like. You have a different theory.”

“You wanted answers once, did you not?”

“Yes. Andy said you guys didn’t have them.”

“Which is true. No definitive answers anyway. But we all have. . . certain beliefs about it.”

Nile hesitated. How many questions were too many? She’d implicitly agreed not to interrogate him. But she couldn’t _not_ ask. Surely he’d just refuse to answer if he couldn’t. “What’s. . . what’s your theory?”

There was a flicker of an emotion from him. That was the only way she could describe it. For a split second, something flickered on his face, in his eyes. And holy hell, she couldn’t interpret it at all. Nicky was still looking at her, and the background behind him was nondescript enough that she had no excuse not to meet his gaze. She tried to wait patiently for the answer. Why wasn't he talking? Somehow she didn't think it was because he was at a loss for words.

"I think," Nicky was saying, and when did he start talking again? "It's about intent. I wasn't there when the first of us passed away, it was before my time. So I'm working off second-hand information. But I think it's intent. I think the reason we keep coming back is that deep down, something in us isn't ready to rest."

"What, we're too stubborn to die?"

"Yes. I don't why it happens to _us_ initially—faith fills in that blank for me—but that's why I think we keep coming back after that."

"That. . . I'm not sure that holds up. You think Andy just, what? Finally lost the will that kept her alive this long, _now_? Of all times. From what I've seen, she's more alive now than she has been in a long time. And what about Booker?"

"Booker," Nicky sighed. "He was the first thing to make me truly doubt my theory. I do believe he wants his final rest."

"Then, what?"

"I don't like it," Nicky said softly. "But I think he won't let himself rest. On some level, he's punishing himself."

Nile sat there, her chest tight. _You'll never forget,_ Booker had said, _the betrayal and hate in their eyes when they look at you_. She wanted to argue, didn't want to believe that Booker was in that much pain. That he was that self-destructive. But Nicky was just sitting on the other end of call, completely calm, with a resigned certainty. It was the kind of certainty that couldn't be argued with. Her throat tightened to the point that it ached.

"I have a theory about why Andy is mortal now," he said. "I think it was a series of things, but your arrival is part of it. She's lived this long, for us, I think. Especially after we lost Quynh—after she gave up the search. She kept going because she felt responsible for me and Joe. And later, Booker. Andy is a leader, she always has been."

Her jaw clenched, her teeth grinding. She couldn't stop it. Why couldn't she stop? "What do I have to do with it," she managed to say past the clench in her throat.

"Because, Nile, you are a lot like her. You're a natural leader in a way the rest of us just aren't. Like her."

"What," she said hoarsely. "What does that mean. You think she wants me to lead when she's gone? I'm the youngest Nicky."

"Which is why we'll help you. If it comes to that."

"If it comes to that," she repeated.

For the first time, Nicky looked visibly hesitant to answer. "I don't want to get your hopes up," he said finally.

"Please explain Nicky," she said. "You can't leave it at that."

Nicky nodded. "That's fair. If I'm right about this. If she is mortal because she's at peace, because she thinks you're her successor and she's stopped fighting to return from death. . . If I'm right, I think with proper motivation, with the right reason, she could regain her immortality."

She found nothing to say to that. She looked away from the phone, back to her laptop where it was on the bed next to her. On the screen, her brother smiled at her, his arm around her mother. They were alive, but she'd lost them already. She didn't want to lose anyone else. Didn't want to lose Andy.

"You think you have something she'll want to live for," she said numbly. Nicky made a small sound, and she turned back to her phone. He looked like he had something else he wanted to say. Almost like he wished he could reach through the phone and—what? Comfort her?

"This is where I have to ask you to trust me," Nicky said. "I can't explain more yet."

Nile nodded. "Okay," she said. "Okay."

"Thank you," he said, and he looked over his shoulder, something in the background catching his attention. "I have to go, we'll talk later. Take care of yourself, Nile. We miss you."

"I miss you guys too," she managed to say before Nicky practically dropped the phone and the call ended abruptly. Nile sat on her bed for a long time after the call ended. If whatever had called him away had been an emergency, he or Joe would call or text her. She had to trust that.

There were things she should be doing, like getting ready to go meet Andy for dinner. Then she could try to focus on other things, and not the mix of hope and worry churning in her gut.

She got up and went to the closet to grab her jacket and shoes. The apartment building this safe house was part of was quiet this time of day. People hadn't gotten back from work yet. She shrugged on her jacket and headed out the door. She pressed the button for the elevator and waited there, thinking. She got on it and leant against the back wall. Her mind was racing. Well. That was normal after any serious conversation with her new compatriots. Even seemingly innocuous conversations about major time periods, innocent questions about their lives, left her with a spinning head and more questions than answers.

_Because she thinks you're her successor and she's stopped fighting to return from death._

Why would Andy think that? Nile was so young compared to the others. Why would she possibly think, possibly want, Nile to lead after her? But she couldn't deny Nicky's words had rung true. Hadn't Andy implied as much herself, that day at Merrick's lab?

_If I don't make it out,_ Andy had said. _Next time, you go first._

She hadn't put it together then. Hadn't wanted to think past her stubborn belief that Andy would make it out. Had ignored the second part of what she'd said. Now, she couldn't do that. Andy was always the first through a door. The point in any formation. Not for just any reason, for _the_ reason. Because she was their leader.

_Next time, you go first._

She stepped off the elevator and barely dodged around the man waiting to get on and go up. She stumbled over to the wall, bracing her hands there. Head hanging low, thinking.

Her phone rang and she pulled it out. It was just an audio call this time, and it was Andy, not Joe or Nicky.

She answered. "Andy. I'm on my way now."

* * *

"I have no words for how disgusting that is," Andy said, watching her slurp down her second bloody Mary with extra Tabasco. It was tangy and bitter and just what she needed to get her out of her own head. It's taste was the kind of metallic that made you pucker your lips between each sip. Made you sit up and notice what you were drinking. Put simply: it was perfect.

"Don't know what you're missing," Nile said, around her straw. "It's an acquired taste. Like coffee. Come to think of it, you don't like coffee either—you drink it, but you always make this grimace."

Andy chuckled, and took another sip of her wine, which was her third glass. Really, she had no room to be judging. At this point, they should have just bought the bottle. They were seated in a back booth, away from the happy hour crowd, so they could talk without shouting to be heard. It was amazing how they could disappear into a crowd like this—in a town she knew like the back of her hand, where people she grew up with were around every corner. Andy had shoved a frayed ballcap onto her head when they met, she'd already been wearing sunglasses. No one gave them a second look, they were just another set of people fresh from work looking to blow off steam.

"Ready to talk about it yet?" Andy said, with a sly look over her wine.

"As ready as I'll ever be, I guess. Alright yeah, hit me with it." She coughed on the last sip of her drink, tugging her cap lower when someone at the bar looked their way. Andy glared back, with the same intensity she'd had since Nile met her. The man at the bar looked away.

"Which do you want to hear first? How your mom's new flower shop is going—named after you, though I'm sure you know that—or your brother and his girlfriend?"

Nile set her empty glass to the side, craning around to catch the bartender's eyes to signal for another round for them both. "I can't believe she named it 'The Niles' Flowers'. And that slogan," she groaned.

"It's more than a river, we have the flowers?"

"Don't remind me."

"It's not so bad."

"Yeah, I know, I just—forget it, the slogan's silly but fine—really, I just want to know if she's happy."

She saw the skeptical look Andy gave her, and they fell silent as the bartender made his way over. He set a new bloody Mary down by Nile's elbow and refilled Andy's wine. It was funny, watching the people in the bar, the normal people. She'd known when she enlisted that coming back home would feel like this. Everyone who signed up knew that was in the cards. But nothing had prepared her for how _other_ she felt compared to these people.

They seemed normal, their interactions choreographed almost. Like there was a sitcom playing around them and her and Andy were the only ones not part of it.

"So, is she," Nile said after the bartender was outside earshot. "Is she happy?"

"Her daughter died less than a year ago. So, no, she's not happy."

"Andy—"

"But she's not broken. She's picking up the pieces and getting on. They're both going to be okay, Nile. I see where you got your stubbornness from."

"Thank you. And the girlfriend?"

"Name's Jenna. She's a good one. Went to your memorial with your brother even though they'd only just started dating."

"Too good for him, huh?"

"Definitely."

"So you approve? I mean, I can't believe you managed to befriend them both in a week. It's a tightknit neighborhood. . . outsiders don't usually manage to get my family to open up."

"Do I need to remind you how long I've been around?"

"Ah," Nile said, fishing out the stalk of celery in her drink and taking a crunching bite out of it. "True. I guess you have a lot of practice charming people."

Andy shook her head, and chuckled again. She went back to sipping her wine. Nile stretched her leg under the table and nudged her foot. "Thank you," she said. "I don't think I've said that yet. Seriously, thank you for checking on them for me. It means a lot to really know they're okay. The pictures are great, but I couldn't be sure from that."

Andy took a long pull from her wine, holding up a hand for another. Her cheeks were flushed. "I'm just happy you agreed not to tell them you're alive."

"I know. Still, thank you."

"Stop thanking me, kid. We're good."

"Alright."

"Now, do you want to explain the funny look you had on your face when we met up?"

A foot nudged her hip and she glanced down to see that Andy had stretched out, her long legs extended to rest on Nile's booth. She appeared to be tipsy, at the very least, from her wine. "I don't know what you mean," Nile said.

"You have to work on your poker face. Spill."

"I talked to Nicky today. You know his theory on why we don't die."

"Yeah."

"Well. . . what do you think about it?"

Andy was looking at her like she was regretting turning their conversation this way. "It's as good an explanation as any."

"You don't believe it?"

Andy snorted. "I gave up trying to make sense of it centuries ago," she said. "I understand why Nicky, and Joe, want to believe it comes down to intent."

"Why's that?"

"Intent implies a modicum of control, a decision made on some level—conscious or subconscious. If they can lose the will to live, as they would if one of them became mortal, they can die together."

"I see," Nile conceded. They lapsed back into silence long enough for them both to finish the latest round of drinks and request the bill. Around them, the bar was beginning to empty as everyone left for home or to find somewhere with more filling food. Andy counted out the cash to cover their drinks and a tip, Nile watching from under her lashes. Andy looked relaxed, her muscles loose from the drinking, even if her expression was still somber from the mood their conversation had ended on.

They made their way to the exit quickly and silently, weaving through the crowded street until they got to the park that served as a shortcut back to the apartment. Andy had zipped up her leather jacket, her own cap back on her head and tugged low. Nile strolled along beside and slightly behind her, breathing in the night air.

Nile stuffed her hands in her pockets, and they cut through the park together, the silence lingering but comfortable. There was something relaxing about spending time with someone who didn't talk much on a good day: it meant the silences never had to be filled. They were both content to leave it, or speak up. "Hey, do you think something's up with Nicky and Joe? They'been acting weird," she said as they paused for a moment to admire the fountain. The park was deserted other than them.

Andy shrugged. "They're probably up to something," she said. Her gaze was fixed on the fountain, watching the lights flicker with the water. After a beat, she started walking and Nile hastened to keep up.

"They'll let us know if they need our help," Nile said. "Won't they?"

"Eh, you'd probably lose that bet," Andy said.

"You're not worried, though," Nile said. They'd reached the apartment building, and Nile bit her tongue when Andy walked past the elevator in favor of the stairs. There was probably a story there. But. One Nile would ask about later. They started up the stairs. Nile kept her hands in her pockets. Andy took the steps two at a time, her shoulders tense.

"Seriously," Nile said. "Should we be worried about them?"

"They can take care of themselves. Besides, if it goes sour—it'll do so loudly. We'll know."

"If you're sure."

"I am. It'll be okay, kid."

"Andy," she said, her throat tight.

_Kid,_ she'd called her. Again.

_She thinks you're her successor,_ Nicky had said.

There was a rush of air as Andy threw open the door and strode out onto their floor. She turned on the spot to watch Nile as she caught up, her brow arched. And all the words on Nile's lips, all the things she wanted to ask, choked and died: _what am I to you?_ and _come on, are you really ready to leave us?_ and _how can you think I want, or am able, to do this without you?_

She shook her head and struggled for breath, beating down the urge to grab onto Andy and beg her not to leave them—leave her—behind. That wouldn't be fair, not when they still had years together.

Not when Nicky and Joe might have something up their sleeve.

"Nightcap before bed?" she asked instead, brushing past Andy to unlock the door.

"You bet, kid."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?
> 
> Just one more to go! Hopefully, it'll be up in a few days. 
> 
> (p.s. I am one of those weirdos who likes bloody marys in the right context *shrugs*)


	6. Andy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how late this is, real-life got in the way, as it tends to do. 
> 
> Better late than never, though?

* * *

After that dinner—they didn’t talk about it again.

They kept on like before, with Andy ingratiating herself into Nile’s hometown while Nile watched from afar and took over handling check-ins. But Andy didn’t forget. In the back of her mind, contingency plans were created, stored, and discarded. There was no further acknowledgment between her and Nile about it and she didn’t bring it up to Nicky or Joe.

But it was intriguing.

Intriguing that they were in France, mainly. That they’d stayed there. As far as she knew, they hadn’t moved on, and that? That wasn’t like them. It was especially intriguing that Nicky had been handling more of the check-in calls than Joe, when before it was almost always the reverse. It was unlike Nicky to do it. She suspected the reason was that, of the two, Joe was more likely to let whatever it was they were up to slip. So it was intriguing.

Enough so that she couldn’t stop herself from mulling it over. And when that happened, Andy didn’t stop until she’d reached an answer for herself or decided to go get the answer from whoever was holding it back. By the day, she was closer to booking two tickets to France.

_They can take care of themselves,_ she had told Nile. _Besides, if it goes sour—it'll do so loudly. We'll know._

All of which was true. But the scenarios her mind was conjuring were beginning to worry her.

“Hey,” she said to Copley one day, catching his gaze when he tried to look away from the video call. “Have you heard from any of the others?”

Copley frowned in apparent confusion. He set aside the file he’d been flipping through.

“Uh. . .” he said.

“I mean, you’re keeping an eye on all of them, aren't you. Have they contacted you? Has Booker?”

“Uh. . .” he said again. Copley looked over his shoulder towards the door of his office, as if hoping someone would materialize there and need his immediate help.

“Copley. You’ve heard from Booker. What about? Is he okay?”

“He, he uh, he seemed fine. What’s this about?”

“Just checking in. Nicky and Joe have been acting. . . out of sorts, lately. They’re still in France, aren’t they? Near Booker.”

“I really can’t comment on what’s normal behavior for them,” Copley hedged.

“Mm. True. But you’ve been cagey since I brought them up. I’m betting you know something.”

“Andy, I really—“

“Copley. You owe me.”

Copley was eyeing her warily. “I thought I was already paying back that particular debt.”

“Consider this part of the repayment. What do you know that I don’t?”

“You’re asking me to divulge things they must have deliberately decided not to tell you?”

“Yes. That is exactly what I’m asking you to do. For their own good. Something’s up, Copley, and the less I know, the more dangerous it may end up.”

He steepled his hands in front of his mouth, his brow furrowed. “They haven’t rented a place, nor are they at any of the known safe houses in the area.”

Andy narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out what he was telling her. He clearly thought he’d told her something leading, and it only took as long for the answer to click because she hadn’t considered the end result a plausible one. Nicky, maybe. But Joe had been so frustrated and hurt. . .

“They’re not checking on Booker,” she said finally. “They’re _with_ Booker.”

* * *

She didn’t do anything about it. At first. She just thought about it, tried to figure out what could have prompted Joe and Nicky to break Booker’s exile. She weighed the possibilities and didn’t care for a single one of them.

Booker had always been self-destructive to a worrying degree, and she shuddered to consider just how bad off he’d have to be to inspire an intervention. The wondering got to her, and then one day, when she couldn’t stand it anymore, she called Copley and asked him to arrange travel for her and Nile.

Now, to actually tell Nile what was happening.

Andy considered the mass of blankets and pillows. There was a tail of braided hair peeking out from one corner, only distinguishable because of how brightly colored the blankets were in contrast. Andy stepped close and tugged the braid. “Up and at’em, soldier,” she said, “we’ve got a flight to catch.”

The blankets shifted, groaned. “Andy,” Nile growled. “What does _that_ mean.”

“Means you need to wake up and pack. Come on, get out of bed before I tip you out of it. Come on, I thought you were a marine, it’s almost noon, why’re you still in bed?”

“Was, Andy. I _was_ a marine. Past-tense.”

“Well, consider yourself re-enlisted for today. Come on, we need to get going,” Andy said, ripping the blankets away and tossing them across the room. Nile grumbled and flailed at the air. She clambered out of the, shooting a disgruntled look at Andy.

"Someone better be dying, permanently," she snarked, on her way to the bathroom.

"Someone might just be. Which is why I need you to put your game face on sooner than later."

“Should have led with that, Andy. Who, exactly, is in danger of dying?” She was yelling to be heard over the sputter of shower turning on. Andy set down the cup in her hand, grabbed the duffle bag by Nile’s dresser, and began packing it. There wasn’t much left to add—apparently Nile had been living out of her bag. She was walking back into the bedroom now, wrapped in a towel and looking marginally more alert.

“Okay,” she said, sitting back on the bed. “What’s going on?”

“We’re going to France.”

Nile frowned. “I thought you said they’d be fine on their own.”

“Yeah, they’re probably not actually in any danger. Except maybe from me—“

“Andy. Wait. Did you seriously wake me up because you’re, what, worried about them? Angry that they haven’t told us what they’re up to?”

Andy retrieved the coffee cup and offered it to Nile. “Here,” she said. “Half hot chocolate, half coffee. Just the way you like it. Your taste in drinks continues to baffle me.”

“Whatever.” Nile took the drink with a roll of her eyes and sipped from it. Some of the tension eased from her shoulders. “Alright. Now, why are we going to France?”

“Because,” Andy said. “Because they’re staying with Booker. In his apartment.”

“Huh,” Nile said. “Good for them. I told you his punishment was too harsh.”

“They didn’t think that though. Well, Nicky agreed in the end.”

Nile stood, grabbed some of the clothes Andy had just finished packing, and disappeared into the bathroom with them and her drink. Andy took her spot on the bed, clasping her hands between her knees as she waited. And when Nile came back—dressed now and with lipstick on—she straightened back up. Nile looked fully awake now as she leaned her hip on the doorjamb and watched Andy from behind her mug. “Okay,” she said. “So something must have happened to get them to go to Booker.”

“Something,” Andy agreed. “I don’t know what.”

“But you want to. They might see us showing up out of the blue as a sign you don’t trust them, you know.”

Andy grimaced. “I know.”

“As long as you do. Okay, I’ll finish packing. What time’s our flight?”

“Couple hours from now.”

“Andy—“

“I know, so stop wasting time. We’re a ways out from the airport, we’re going to be cutting it close.”

“We’re flying out on a regular plane, right? No Russian smugglers this time?”

Andy huffed, her mouth twitching as she remembered that first flight with Nile. Strange, what counted as a fond memory for her. She doubted Nile felt the same about it. “Yeah, Copley arranged everything.”

“Well, France here we come, then.”

There was something about Nile’s matter-of-factness, her easy acceptance of the plan—or well, her easy acceptance once she’d been plied with chocolate and caffeine—that made Andy relax. Almost made her believe everything was going to turn out okay.

“Thank you, Nile. I know. . . I might be dragging you into the middle of. . . Well, I don’t know what. Just. Thanks.”

“Of course. This is what friends, family, are for.”

“Yeah, kid. This is that.”

“Besides, I’ve been worried about them. And Andy?”

“Yeah?”

“Whatever the _something_ is? We’ll handle it. We’re all going to be okay.”

She offered Nile a rueful smile, she’d like to believe that—but Andy hadn’t been _okay_ in a long time. She didn’t see that changing, all she could hope to do was make sure everyone else was.

* * *

It took them 48 hours to arrive at Booker’s apartment.

They would have been there a full 24 hours earlier but their connecting flight had been delayed and they’d gotten stuck cooling their heels overnight in a deserted airport. It had given Andy ample time to come up with disaster scenarios.

_You’re exhausting_ , Nile had grumbled and she’d slumped down in her chair, leaning against Andy’s shoulder.

Andy hadn’t had a rejoinder for that, too busy bothering Copley for updates. Trying to ignore the disaster movie playing out in the back of her mind. Pretending to doze the way Nile had been.

So they arrived at Booker’s, a day later than she wanted, and Nile knocked on the door. Sure enough, Joe answered, a smile on his face that quickly fell away. “Fancy finding you here, Joe,” Andy said, and he gaped at her, his hand twitching on the doorknob like he was considering shutting it on them.

She didn’t think he’d actually be dumb enough to do it, but she wedged her foot in the way. Just in case.

“Hey, Andy. Nile. I can explain—“ he trailed off, looking over his shoulder with a frown. Someone moved then, a sudden burst of movement in the background that had Andy falling into a ready stance. Another form tackled the first to the ground.

Andy pushed her way past Joe, staring at the two wrestling on the ground. “What is going on,” she said.

The door shut behind her and Nile came to stand at her shoulder, a pistol in her hand.

“That’s not necessary,” Joe murmured and he slipped past them to crouch beside Nicky and the woman he had pinned to the carpet. “Should I get Booker?”

Nicky looked up at that. He was wearing a black sweatshirt and jeans, his hood falling to the side from the tussle. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, shadows under his eyes and the beginnings of a beard on his face. Joe hadn’t looked much better, Andy noted. Whatever had been happening, hadn’t allowed them to sleep much. "He's in the shower," Nicky was saying. "Get him, please."

Joe nodded. He squeezed Nicky's shoulder and then moved away. On some level, Andy was tracking it. But the majority of her focus was on the woman pinned to the floor. Her face was hidden behind curtains of dark hair, and she was breathing in short gasps.

Something in Andy's chest went hollow, the sound hitting there like a blow. "The hell," she said. "What the hell is going on."

"It's a long story."

"Nicky."

He didn't answer. Instead, he sat back on his heels, tugging the woman up so that they were both sitting. All without loosening his grip on her.

The woman kept her head bowed low. The staticky rasp of her breaths echoing in the near-silent living room, a quiet tension ratcheting up until it was the worst thing Andy had experienced in recent memory. It tickled something in the back of her mind, that quiet gasping sound, but she couldn't pinpoint what was familiar about it. Standing there and listening to it was going to drive her mad. She kept her hands at her side, and Nile's hand rested on her shoulder, and for an indeterminable amount of time, they all stayed where they were. Nicky was looking down at his captive like he wasn't even aware they had an audience, like he was just sitting there and cuddling the woman instead of bodily restraining her.

At last, the woman raised her head. "Hello, beloved," Quynh said softly.

Andy fell back a step, and Nile's hand moved to grip her elbow. Steadying her. "Quynh? What. . ." she trailed off.

"Cat got your tongue?"

"Quynh," Nicky said.

"Oh hush, Nicolo." Quynh shifted to recline back against him, lifting her chin and staring at Andy. Just looking back at her with a detached apathy that set her on edge. "I'm not going to attack her. For the moment."

Andy stared at her, trying to figure out how someone like Quynh existed. An old riddle, with a new twist. It wasn't just her existence now, it was figuring out what Andy had done to deserve to see Quynh again before she died. "How are you here?"

Quynh gave a snort, and behind her Nicky twitched a bit, only settling when Quynh turned her head to nudge his chin gently. His hands were still wrapped around her arms, pinning her to him. "Saltwater. It eroded my coffin and I was able to break free."

"That. . . that's good. I'm glad. How. . . how long have you been free?"

"As eloquent as ever, I see. I believe I've been out for a month and a half. Perhaps two."

"Two months," Booker said. He stumbled out of the door across the room, shrugging on what looked like one of Joe's shirts. The shoulders and collar quickly growing damp from his dripping hair. "You found me on day 186 of my exile."

"Of course you were counting," Joe grumbled as he slipped into the room behind Booker and flopped down on the couch.

Booker flipped Joe off without looking at him.

"If you don't mind, Nicky." Booker stopped next to the two on the floor, holding his hand out to Quynh. "You can let her up."

Nicky closed his eyes. "Okay," he said. He didn't argue, as Andy half-expected him to. Nicky was the most protective of their group, always the one with a weapon at hand, always between them and the nearest entry point. They were all protective in their own way, it went hand in hand with being warriors, with being defenders. But Nicky had always taken it to another level. Had always been the most serious about it. That he didn't argue, that he released Quynh and slid away with no further protest, spoke volumes.

Quynh took Booker's hand and he helped her up, tucking her into his side. Finally, his gaze met Andy's.

"Hey Andy," he rasped out, and she tracked the tremble in his jaw, slight, but there.

Andy swallowed, that hollowness in her chest spreading. Here, in front of her, just within reach, were two people she hadn't dared to think she'd see again before she died.

She met Booker's eyes, leaning into Nile to ground herself.

She stuffed her hands in her pockets, clenching them into fists. "Hey," she said. Booker just looked at her, his mouth curling into a wry smile. "Hey," she repeated.

"It's good to see you," he said.

"I told you to have a little faith."

"Sure," Booker said. "I don't think this is what you had in mind when you said that though. In fairness."

"In fairness," Nicky said, and he stood up just long enough to settle down in the lone armchair. "No one saw this coming."

"In fairness, no one saw Quynh coming,” Joe mocked with an open-mouthed laugh that made Andy want to punch him. Simultaneously, it drained away most of the tension in her shoulders.

"Idiots," Andy muttered, glancing sideways to catch Nile's gaze. Nile snickered; it looked like she'd been enjoying the byplay between all of them, the corner of her mouth quirked up in a grin and her eyes sparkling. "You're all a bunch of—"

"Uh-huh," Joe said, still laughing like a loon. "Tell me, what does that make you? After all, you lead us, influence us. I could argue we learned it all from you, because—"

It was over before she realized what was happening. Joe's neck was pinned back against the arm of the couch, a knife at his throat, and Quynh was standing over him, her expression cold and remote. Joe's hands were raised in surrender, all laughter wiped from his face, and under the shock in his eyes was a hint of sadness. "Yusuf," Quynh said, her voice lost. Confused.

"It's okay, everything's okay," Nicky said, his voice soft. "Quynh, it's okay, You can let him go." He inched closer to Quynh and Joe—who still had his hands raised, and fuck, Andy was just standing here watching.

"Quynh," Booker said.

"I—I'm sorry," Quynh said, stumbling back, falling against Booker. The knife fell to the floor. She raked her hands through her hair, clenching and tugging. Andy was frozen, every instinct screaming at her to take Quynh into her arms, to check on Joe, to do _anything_. But she didn't, she couldn't, she was frozen. "Sorry," Quynh said again. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Joe said, in that easy voice of his. The one he could pull out when none of the rest of them could imagine relaxing. Nicky collapsed onto the couch next to him, shifting so that he was between Joe and Quynh. "I shouldn't have been making jokes about this. About you. Quynh, you know how happy we are to have you back."

Quynh nodded. Her hands unclenched from her hair.

Andy sighed, the vice she'd barely noticed forming around her throat loosening. The hand she’d almost forgotten at her elbow disappeared, reappearing to rub her back. As if Nile thought she could massage away the pain and anger underneath her skin.

“I have an idea,” Nile whispered to her, voice pitched so that it wouldn’t carry to the others. “While I’m looking forward to getting to know you, Quynh,” she continued, her voice at a normal level now. “I think Booker’s apartment is too small for all six of us.”

“Definitely,” Joe agreed. “We were having trouble with just four.”

“We passed a few hotels on the way in.”

“Mm,” Nicky said. “We could talk to them. One has to have a few next to each other we could book.”

It went unsaid, but agreed upon, that they wouldn’t be splitting up. No one would be staying in the apartment while the rest went to a hotel.

“I can charm them better in person,” Joe said, shrugging his shoulders and offering the room a bright grin. Demonstrating the source of said charm. “Maybe get a discount or an agreement to, ah, look the other way if they see or hear anything odd.”

Andy took a deep breath, and nodded. “Nile, go with these two and make sure they don’t do anything stupid.”

“I resemble that statement.” Joe stood with a laugh, quieter than before but no less genuine. He gave Nicky a hand up and slid around the furniture to stand next to Nile.

“I could stay,” Nicky said quietly.

Andy stepped further into the room, away from the door and closer to Booker and Quynh. “No. Go, all three of you.”

“Andy,” Nicky said.

“Go,” she said. “We’ll be fine here. And take the mutt hiding in the kitchen. Better find out if they're pet friendly from the get-go.”

“Call if you need anything.”

“Yes, okay. Now, _get going already_.” She turned her head and looked Nicky straight in the eyes. He lingered, staring back. She’d never be able to say what he saw there, what made him obey with no further discussion, but he did. He fetched the dog from the kitchen, trailing behind Joe and Nile, and left without a backwards glance. The door clicked shut behind them before Andy turned back to Quynh and Booker.

“Well, let’s talk.” She said.

* * *

Andy picked her way through the debris and trash, trying to find the path of least resistance forward. It was dark, and the moon wasn’t quite full, so she was careful with how she stepped. The last thing she needed was to twist an ankle or pitch over the edge of the building. The person sprawled out in the far corner of the roof could definitely hear her, but didn’t acknowledge it.

The city was alive around them, car lights flickering in the distance, chatter from the road below reaching them in a muffled hum. It was a good spot for watching the stars, they had the tallest building in the area so there wasn’t anything obstructing the view.

“Mind if I join you?” She said, flopping down next to Quynh. She didn’t lay down, yet. Quynh didn’t say anything or look her way. Didn’t respond at all. Her eyes were fixed on the sky above, her hands folded behind her head. Slowly, Andy laid down.

In silence, they both stared up at the sky. Andy shifted, trying to force herself to relax, to let go of the tension she was carrying.

“I didn’t mean to chase you off,” Andy said.

“You did not.”

“Then why did you leave? You worried Booker.”

“Booker, you say? And yet, he’s not the one who sought me out. Without an invitation, I may add.”

“Well, point out that nosey asshole, and I’ll deck’em for you.”

Quynh huffed a laugh, and rolled her head sideways to look at her. “Once we’re back inside, I’ll point you to a mirror.”

They laid there, in a comfortable silence this time, just watching each other. Andy squinted, trying to memorize what she could see.

“Beloved,” Quynh said. “A picture would last longer.”

Andy laughed. “Booker got you up to speed on cameras?”

“Technology in general. It’s. . . amazing how much things have changed.”

“One word for it. Can I ask what drove you up here? If it wasn’t—“

“No.”

Andy nodded, and let it drop. She turned back to the sky, studying the layout of the stars above her. It had been a long time since she’d taken a moment to look up. “How is it, being mortal again?” Quynh asked after a moment. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like.”

“I always thought I’d die before I found out what it would be like.”

“Fair. But, that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Painful, mostly. I was too accustomed to healing quickly, to even the worst pain passing sooner than later.”

“I see,” Quynh said harshly. “No, actually I don’t. I haven’t been privileged enough to be accustomed to that in a very long time. I drowned, died, and woke to drown again. It never ended or passed, not even once my coffin fell apart around me. I was so deep, I drowned more times than I care to count before I surfaced.”

Andy sighed. This was where this conversation had to end up, eventually. There was no dancing around this, lest one of the many knives Quynh shouldn’t have reappeared. “I won’t apologize for giving up,” she said, and she closed her eyes. “Because, some things can’t. . . _shouldn’t_ be forgiven. That doesn’t mean I’m not sorry, I am. Quynh, I failed you and I have no excuse. Nothing to say in my defense. I just, I hope you find peace. You deserve it.”

“Do you know what my one respite was? My deaths were not empty or blank. . . not like they were before. Perhaps because I couldn’t sleep, my dreams came in the moments I was dead. . . I didn’t even have _that,_ before Booker. And you threw him away.”

“Quynh.“

“He was my touchstone for his comparatively short immortal life. Most often, that meant, I dreamt of you. Because you were his rock. Because the moments fate decreed I see, were ones where he was at his lowest. And you know what I noticed?”

“Quynh,” she said again.

“As time went on, you were there for him in those moments less and less. You abandoned him as surely as you did me.”

“That’s not—“

“ _Andromache_.”

Quynh sat up, and Andy carefully mirrored her. Quynh’s anger was an alive thing around them, the air humming with it. She was looking out at the city, and not at all at Andy. “I didn’t mean to,” Andy said quietly.

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Andy reached up to clasp the pendant hanging from her necklace, rubbing her thumb across it like the worry stones she’d collected in her youth. She’d forgotten so much, but the relief of having something to clutch and warm with her hands had never left her. The effect was muted now, but it wasn’t nothing.

“Beloved,” Quynh said, back to avoiding Andy’s name. “I escaped up here so that I could regain my bearings without hurting anyone.”

Andy let the necklace fall. Wondered if Quynh had recognized it yet, if she remembered it. “Can I please stay,” she said. “I’ll keep my mouth shut. Just, please, don’t send me away.”

Quynh reclined back again and didn’t say anything. That was probably the closest thing to an agreement she’d get. She got comfortable sitting, unsure if she was welcome to lay next to Quynh again. There had been a time where she’d never doubted her welcome with Quynh, now, that was a luxury she was unlikely to ever know again.

Why her presence was tolerated now, when it hadn’t been mere hours ago, was lost on her. Especially when before, they’d had Booker as a not-so-neutral buffer.

_Honestly_ , Booker had said, leaning against the kitchen table. _Can’t you two just be happy to both be here and alive?_

Andy had grimaced. _It’s not—_ she’d begun.

_I have a therapist,_ Quynh had snapped. _I no longer require you to play that role for me, Booker. And you, beloved,_ she continued, and her voice had dripped with sarcasm. _I realize you feel guilty, deservedly so, but I can feel it from across the room and it is making it hard to not give in to my urge to strangle you._

_I don’t—that, is, I mean—Quynh—_ she had fumbled to speak, and then cut herself off.

Booker had frowned and moved like he might come towards her, and she had flinched.

_Andy, please,_ he had said. _Take a breath. Both of you need to take a moment._ He had waved a hand between the two of them. _This isn’t going to be solved immediately, but you have time. You do._

_Okay_ , she had said. _Okay, you’re right._

_I’m taking my moment away from here. Your guilt is a cloud around you that I cannot stand a moment longer._

Then Quynh had left, and Booker had held up a quelling hand when Andy started to follow. And so, Andy gave her space. For a while. Booker had showed her where Joe had stashed his beer and they’d spent the next bit of time in near silence. Andy had a feeling that Booker felt bad for her, and it had made her skin crawl. Being the object of pity was not a new sensation for her, and it never failed to set her on edge. Booker had seemed sure Quynh had merely gone to the roof, and she’d had no choice but to take his word for it.

He’d been right, in the end, the roof was exactly where Quynh had been.

Andy rubbed her hands together, and wished she’d brought the six-pack of beer up with her. “You stopped looking. For them,” Quynh said. “For Yusuf and Nicolo.”

“Yes.”

“I was as good as dead, I suppose. Can't blame you for prioritizing the living. But I do. _I do._ I don’t know how to get past this, Andromache.”

Andy turned to see that Quynh was looking at her. “I’m sorry I tried to kill you,” Quynh said. “And for fleeing. I’m better than that.”

“It’s understandable. If our positions were reversed, I wouldn’t have been subdued as easily. And I wouldn’t have been self-aware enough to remove myself,” Andy said quietly.

“Sounds accurate,” Quynh sighed. “You were always a fierce warrior and often too caught up in the moment to have perspective. I used to provide that, but now—I’m not sure I have that anymore.”

“You’re still better at it than me.”

Quynh gave a grim laugh and her hand found Andy’s shoulder, tugging her down beside her. “That is not the high praise you think it is,” she said.

“Yeah, well. I’ve never been good at compliments.”

Quynh’s laugh at that, was genuine and rasping, no bitterness weighing it down. Perhaps she was remembering some of the truly embarrassing compliments Andy had tried to pay her when they’d first met. Andy was tempted to ask, but now wasn’t the right time.

“I miss it,” Quynh said. “The world as it was when I was thrown to the sea. That’s sick, right? That I miss that time, that culture, that place that tried so hard to kill me? Kill us. It was awful, but it was familiar. I missed so much after too.”

“Not that weird. Things were simpler, back then.”

She turned on her side to lay facing Andy, propping her head up with her arm. Andy thought about lying similarly, but it felt too intimate. Something she hadn’t earned. So, she stayed on her back, just her head turned to meet Quynh’s gaze. “I mean, now isn’t bad,” Quynh continued. “All the new technology is convenient, if a bit confusing. It’s amazing, how much things have changed. And kind of sad.”

“I miss horses being more common,” Andy offered.

“Exactly. They used to be everywhere, and there was no lack of righteous battles to get involved in. People to save, causes to champion. From what Booker has told me, and what I’ve seen, conflict is much more complicated today, so, simpler wars are another thing I miss,” Quynh paused and sighed. Her eyes shut, her mouth a thin line.

“I’m lying,” she said, voice hoarse. “It’s not that time I miss. It’s you.”

Andy felt like she’d been sucker-punched in the gut, her breath stolen from her between one heartbeat and the next.

Quynh was still lying there, her eyes closed. There was enough light from the moon and the city around them for Andy to map the smooth planes of her face. To see the soft waves her hair fell around her in. She was so beautiful it made looking at her painful, made Andy’s chest constrict. A beauty that had once been beside her, always and willingly. What she’d give to have that again, what she’d give to reach out and touch again. “I miss you too,” she managed to say, finally.

“That, I never doubted.”

“Think you know me so well, huh?”

“You haven’t changed that much, beloved.”

And then, because she couldn’t help it, because, despite her earlier words, she wanted to apologize, not to receive forgiveness but to say the words and acknowledge her failings—and because not saying things, not stepping in when she noticed something wrong was what got them here to begin with—she decided to be honest. To say what was on her mind. Maybe somethings shouldn’t be forgiven, but maybe that didn’t mean you shouldn’t offer an apology. Maybe, when all else failed, that was all you could do. “I’m so sorry,” she said simply. “I’m sorry I gave up. I’m sorry you suffered so that I could take care of Nicky and Joe and everyone else who needed us. If I could change it, if I could take your place, I would. In a heartbeat.”

Quynh stiffened at that, shifting so she was looming over her, resting her weight on her elbow. She just looked at her, looked down into the depths of her. For a fleeting second, Andy felt like Quynh was seeing into her soul, reading everything there was to be found there. “Andromache,” Quynh said, in a soft voice. “Even at my worst moment, I never wanted that.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” she said. “I mean it, I was relieved—“ she swallowed, and turned her away from Quynh’s searing gaze.

“You were relieved about what?”

“I was relieved to be mortal. To be able to die and. . . I don’t know, face whatever justice awaits me.”

Quynh exhaled, long and slow, but didn’t respond.

“Booker stopped telling me when he dreamed of you, you know,” Andy continued. “Before Nile, I’d managed to convince myself you’d died. That you were at peace. It seemed. . . a mercy.”

“It would have been.”

“I thought that was why you left, that you couldn’t stand to look at me. It should have been me, that day. Not you. Never you.”

Quynh huffed. “No, looking at you has never been my problem. I left because I was too on edge, it was about me, not you. I wanted you to keep searching for me, yes, but I never wanted you to take my place. Truly.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault. Me ending up in the coffin, that is. You know that, right?”

“Because we both chose to save those women?”

“Exactly. I knew what I was risking.” Quynh leaned down, knocking their foreheads together gently with a smile. Andy hid her answering smile by chasing her when Quynh pulled away, nudged their faces together.

“Quynh,” Andy murmured. “Can I ask you something?”

“Mm.”

“Why’d you go to Booker? You could have gone to Nile. To me.”

Quynh pulled away and sat up, looking thoughtful. “For many reasons,” she said. “But mostly because after dreaming of him for 200 years, I trusted him. I knew him. And I knew if anyone could understand how I felt, it would be him. Honestly, I just _went_ to Booker. There wasn’t a lot of thought involved.”

“Fucking hell, I’m surrounded by people who leap without looking” Andy sighed, and Quynh laughed.

“Like attracts like, my dear. Besides, you love us. Your life would be long and tedious without us keeping you on your toes.”

“I do,” Andy said. “Love you all, love _you_. But I’m realistic enough to know that the reverse is nigh on impossible. I’ve failed you, all of you, one too many times.”

Andy sat up. She carefully didn’t look at Quynh. Instead, she tracked a blinking light journeying across the night sky. A plane of some kind, most likely. Too far off to make out more than that. And in that moment, she heard the words she’d spoken on repeat in her mind. It reverberated there, what she’d revealed without meaning to. _A loose tongue_ , Nicky would say if he were here, _often reveals a truth we haven’t faced yet._ Joe would laugh, and correct him, _I think you mean, the drunk mind speaks the sober heart._ And Nicky would frown and insist that was not, in fact, what he meant. Booker would laugh at them and shake his head. Centuries together, and it was impossible not to imagine how her brothers would respond to any given situation. A good distraction, but a momentary one.

“Beloved,” Quynh said, quiet and solemn. “Please look at me.”

And she did. Because that tone was not one she could ever disobey. “‘M sorry,” she murmured. “That’s. . . That’s not what I came up here for. I don’t expect anything.”

“Come here.”

She did. She twisted to face Quynh. Who just looked back at her. Then, Quynh’s hand was on her jaw, tilting her face, pulling her even closer. As if she was looking for something. And then, and then, Quynh’s lips were brushing hers and her heart skipped a beat. She matched how gently Quynh was kissing her, savoring the sweetness of it, the taste of her mouth. All too soon, Quynh was pulling back, a new light in her eyes.

“I don’t know what this means,” Andy whispered, surprised at how wrecked her voice sounded. “But can we do that again?”

“Yes, my love,” Quynh breathed, nuzzling her cheek. And that, that was the endearment Andy hadn’t realized she’d been waiting to hear. It could be argued that ‘beloved’ amounted to about the same thing, but it wasn’t, not for them. Beloved was a reminder, of how Andy had failed to hold Quynh as _beloved_. She realized now, she’d been waiting to hear Quynh call her ‘my love’, in that barely remembered tone, with that tender emphasis, since she’d laid eyes on her. For the first time, she felt real hope that they might be able to work things out, regain some of what they’d lost.

The thought had her pressing her mouth to Quynh’s, kissing her hard, her hands tangling in her hair. And Quynh kissed her back with the same passion and fierce love. God, maybe they could have this, have each other again and forever.

And then Quynh had twisted out of her grip and was standing up, grabbing Andy’s hand and tugging her to her feet. Andy crowded close and kissed her again, reluctant to let the moment end. Quynh laughed against her, nipping her bottom lip and stepping backward. It was all Andy could do keep her balance and stumble after her. Their hands stayed linked, and she knew it was because neither of them were ready to let go.

“Think they got the hotel figured out yet?” Quynh asked, and Andy shrugged, pressing her against the door that led to the stairway. She brushed their lips together again, trailing kisses across Quynh’s cheeks, her temples, her eyelids, any part of her she could reach. And this was even better than before, they were standing and pressed together so close that she could feel and hear every sound Quynh made, and Quynh was pulling her impossibly closer, her hands wandering.

“Hey, is it okay—” Quynh said, and she was pleased to hear her cut off with a gasp as Andy began to press open mouth kisses to her jaw and neck.

“Hm?” Andy said, nuzzling close.

“Is it okay. . . if we just, just keep doing this?”

Andy leaned back. She slid both hands up to cradle Quynh’s face, pressed their foreheads together. “Yes,” she whispered and kissed her again. “Anything you want.”

Later, she’d never be able to say how long they stayed on the roof—kissing and touching and relearning each other—it could have been five minutes or an hour. Eventually, they walked back to the apartment, and she’d only been able to bear stopping because one of her hands was still entwined with Quynh’s. She wasn’t quite ready to let go of her yet, and judging by the way Quynh’s grip tightened just before they reentered the apartment, she felt the same.

They were the last to return, Andy noted, the others all there in the living room. Some of what they’d been up to must have shown on her face because Joe took one look and began laughing. Nicky elbowed him, but the way he was smiling took any real rebuke from it.

“Well, will you look at that,” Booker said, his face soft and only a little sad. Beside him, Nile reached over to grasp his hand.

Andy kicked the door shut and resisted the urge to roll her eyes at them, aware that would only encourage them.

Before she could ask about the hotel, or tell Joe off for his _continued_ laughter, Nicky lobbed something at her.

She caught it, glancing down to see it was the knife they’d confiscated off of Quynh earlier. Andy met his gaze, and arched an eyebrow. A strange feeling of anticipation began to build.

“What’s this for?”

“Do me a favor,” Nicky said.

In the corner of her eye, she saw Nile stiffen, but she kept her focus on Nicky. And on Quynh, whose hand had gone lax in hers.

“What’s that?”

“Cut your hand.”

Quynh’s hand gripped hers tightly again and she hid a wince. That anticipation spiked to a new level, until the air seemed almost to buzz.

Instead of letting go of Quynh she lobbed the knife into the air, catching it on its way down by wrapping her free hand around the blade instead of the hilt. Blood welled up and the bite was as bad as she'd expected, Quynh ever meticulous about keeping her blades sharp.

She bit her lip, and then, Nicky was in front of her, taking the knife and passing it off to Joe. He cradled her injured hand and wiped away the blood with the sleeve of his hoodie. Andy’s breath hitched. That was _impossible_.

And yet, and yet, there was no cut on her palm or on her fingers, no sign at all that she’d caught a knife and gripped it hard enough to slice to the bone. She stared at her hand, unable to believe what her eyes were telling her.

Nicky threw his arms around her and Quynh, and it wasn’t long before the others joined the impromptu group hug. It was suffocating and too warm and everything she hadn’t realized she needed.

“I look forward to you leading the charge for a very long time to come, Andy,” Nicky murmured.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?
> 
> p.s. can you believe they haven't announced a sequel yet? What are they doing over there at Netflix?


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